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ORATOR'S OWN BOOK. 






COMPILED BY 



THE EDITOR OF WALDIE'S LIBRARY. 



h 




PHILADELPHIA.* 

PUBLISHED BY CRISSY, WALDIE, <fc CO. 
1835. 






^4^ 



Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1835, by 
Crigsy, Waldie &, Co. in the clerk's office of the district court for the 
eastern district of Pennsylvania. 



PREFACE 



The Orator's Own Book purports tor be a careful 
selection of exercises in Elocution, containing speci- 
mens, either for committing to memory or for read- 
ing, from the most celebrated authors of ancient and 
modern times. In forming a style of public speaking, 
much of the manner must of -course depend upon 
training and example ; but in the matter of thought 
and expression models must be selected, which, by 
the universal consent of mankind, are deemed worthy 
of imitation. In the great variety here presented 
the leisure hours of the student may find profitable 
occupation, and a copious fund of ideas may be col- 
lected, to prepare him, when he listens to oratory, to 
judge of true eloquence flowing from a furnished 
mind. 

The directions for public speaking have been made 
as brief and intelligible as possible, and are derived 
both from observation and established authorities. 
In this respect the present is conceived to be an im- 
provement on former works which have had mainly 
the same objects in view ; to this feature is added a 
superiority of typographical execution. 

Little reference has been had as to the admission of 
what had previously been selected, and some extracts 



V1I1 PREFACE. 

are given which are well known to those who have 
passed through a course of study ; thinking that 
what is excellent should not he despised because it 
is known. A careful scrutiny of the contents is so- 
licited in forming comparisons ; and, as future edi- 
tions are contemplated, the editor will gladly receive 
any contributions addressed to him through the pub- 
lishers. 






CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

1. Directions for Public Speaking, 13 

2. Industry necessary to form the orator. — H. Ware, Jr. 39 

3. Hamlet's instruction to the players. — Shakspeare, . 41 

4. Oration against Philip. — Demosthenes. . . . .42 
- 5. Hamlet's soliloquy. — Shakspeare. .... 45 

6. Oration against Philip, urging the succour of the Olynthi- 

ans. — Demosthenes. ...... 46 

7. To the American flag. — Halleck. . . . . .52 

8. The obligations of America to Lafayette. — Hayne. . 54 

9. The obligations of America to Greece 56 

10. Speech of Adherbal to the Roman senate, imploring their 

assistance against Jugurtha. — Sallust. . . .57 

11. The conduct of Great Britain towards America in 1774. — 

Patrick Henry 60 

12. Calisthenes' reproof of Cleon's flattery to Alexander, on 

whom he had proposed to confer divinity, by vote.— 

«• Quintius Curtius 62 

13. Cassius instigating Brutus to join the conspiracy against 

Caesar. — Shakspeare. ...... 63 

14. The exordium of Curran's defence of Rowan. . . .64 

15. Character of Napoleon. — Phillips. .... 66 

16. Duke of Milan pleading his cause before Charles V. — 

Massinger. 68 

17. Extract from an oration on the virtues of General Wash- 

ington.— Ames 69 

18. Sir Anthony Absolute and Captain Absolute. — Sheridan. 71 

19. William Tell in the field of Grutli.— Knowles. . . 73 

20. Close of Mr. Webster's defence of Judge Prescott. . 74 

21. Speech of Vindex against the tyrant Nero. — Tacitus. . 76 

22. Character of Blannerhassett. — Wirt 77 

23. On the power of public opinion. — Webster. . . .79 

24. Villany working a noble mind to jealousy. Othello and 

Iago. — Shakspeare. ...... 82 

25. Advice to the young. — Channing 86 

26. The coral insect. — Mrs. Sigourney 87 

27. Priuli and JafEer.— Otway 88 

28. Parting of Douglas and Marmion. — Scott. ... 90 

29. Christianity the foundation of the Law. — Erskine. . 92 

30. Christianity the faith of the most gifted minds. — Erskine. 93 

31. Supposed speech of an opponent of the Declaration of In- 

dependence. — Webster. 95 

32. Supposed speech of John Adams in favour of the Declara- 

tion of Independence, — Webster. , , , , 96 



: CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

33. A country bumpkin and a razor seller. — Wolcott. . . 99 

34. Kings should learn in adversity how to act in prosperity. — 

Mallet 101 

35. The plague described. — Dryden. .... 103 

36. The solemnity of the temple or mansion of the dead. — 

Congreve 104 

37. Sophonisba to Massanissa. — Livy. .... 105 

38. Scipio to the Romans. — Livy 105 

39. Manlius to his son. — Livy 106 

40. Extract from the speech of Edmund Randolph, on the 

expediency of adopting the Federal constitution, in 
the convention, June 6, 1788. .... ib. 

41. Extract from the oration delivered at Boston, March 5, 

1772, the anniversary of the Boston massacre. — 
Warren 112 

42. Memory.— Goldsmith . 114 

43. Hope — Goldsmith. ....... ib. 

44. The unbeliever. — Chalmers. 115 

45. Sublimity of mountain scenery. — Croly. . . ib. 

46. The condition and effects of guilt. — Curran. . . 116 

47. The peroration of Mr. Burke's speech, on the impeachment 

of Hastings. 117 

48. Parliamentary reform opposed. — Sir Robert Peel. . . 120 

49. Specimen of the eloquence of James Otis. . . . 121 

50. Home dear to the African ; and the guilt of tearing him 

from it. — James Montgomery. .... 122 

51. Extract from Mr. Webster's speech in the senate, in reply 

to Mr. Calhoun on nullification. . . . 123 

52. Extract from the same speech 125 

53. Extract from the same. ...... 127 

54. Conclusion of Mr. Emmet's speech on the trial of William 

S.Smith 129 

55. Catharina — addressed to Miss Stapleton Cowper. . 130 

56. Speech ©f Mr. Phillips for a gardener. . . . 132 

57. Mirabeau's funeral oration on the death of Dr. Franklin. 137 

58. Extract from Mr. Pitt's speech in the British parliament, 

in praise of the congress at Philadelphia. . . 138 

59. Reply of Mr. Pitt to the charge of youthful inexperience, 

and theatrical animation 139 

60. King James and Roderick Dhu. — Sir Walter Scott. . 141 

61. Greece. — Byron 147 

62. Extract from Mr. Madison's speech on the Federal con- 

stitution. ........ 148 

63. The poplar field. — Cowper. 149 

64. Interview between Waverley and Fergus M'lvor, previous 

to the execution of the latter. — Sir Walter Scott. 150 

65. Death of Morris, the spy. — Sir Walter Scott. . . 154 

66. Oration spoken by Pericles, at the funeral of those Athe. 

nians, who had been killed in the Peloponessian war. 
— Thucydides. ... . 157 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

67. Dialogue. Puff, Dangler, and Sneer. — Sheridan. . . 166 

68. Prince Henry and his father. — Shakspeare. . 171 

69. Clarence's dream.— Shakspeare 173 

70. Conclusion of the Earl of Stafford's defence of himself be- 

fore the house of lords, 1641. .... 175 

71. Twilight.— Halleck 177 

72. The philosopher's scales. — Jane Taylor. . . . 178 

73. Extract from a review of Milton's works. — Channing. 179 

74. National recollections the foundation of national charac- 

ter.— E. Everett. 181 

75. Cato's senate. — Addison 183 

76. Jaffier and Pierre.— Otway 187 

77. The horrors of war. — Chalmers. ..... 190 

78. Cardinal Wolsey and Cromwell. — Shakspeare. . . 191 

79. Seneca's address to the Emperor Nero. — Tacitus. . 194 

80. Death of Bertram. — Waller Scott 196 

81. The danger of altering the constitution. — Governeur Morris. 197 

82. Death's final conquest. — Shirley. .... 199 

83. Description of the ballot by Beans. — Burke. . . 200 

84. Marco Bozzaris.— Halleck 202 

85. Falstaff's encomium on sack.— Shakspeare. . . 203 

86. Prologue to the Tragedy of Cato.— Pope. . . . 204 

87. Hannibal to his soldiers. — Livy. .... 205 

88. Rolla and the sentinel. — Sheridan. .... 208 

89. The right of self defence against the accusations of parlia- 

ment. — Erskine 211 

90. General Washington's address to his troops. . . 212 

91. Scene of filial affection. Lear, Cordelia, Kent, and phy si- * 

cian. — Shakspeare. ...... 213 

92. A sister pleading for the life of a condemned brother. 

Isabella and Angelo. — Shakspeare. . . . 215 

93. Reflections on a wounded stag. — Shakspeare. . . 218 

94. Scene from the Poor Gentleman. . 220 

95. Political cupidity icproved. — Sheridan. . . . 226 

96. Autumn.— Longfellow 227 

97. The haunch of venison.— Goldsmith 228 

98. Oration concerning the regulation of the state. — Demos- 

thenes. .231 

99. Mucius Scsevola to King Porsenna. — Livy. . . 233 

100. The inestimable value of the Union. — Webster. . . 234 

101. Mutual forbearance necessary to the happiness of the mar- 

ried state. — Cowper. ...... 236 

102. Moloch, the fallen angel, to the infernal powers, inciting 

them to renew the war. — Milton. ... 237 

103. Speech of Belial advising peace.— Milton. ... 239 

104. Speech of Lord Mansfield, on the bill for preventing the 

delays of justice, 1770 241 

105. Lady Randolph's soli loo uy on the death of her husband 

and child, — Home 245 



w 

Xii CONTENTS. 

TAGK 

106. Speech of Henry V. to his soldiers, at the siege of Harfleur. 

— Shakspeare 245 

107. The Bell of St. Regis.— Mrs. Sigourney. . . .246 
10S. Daybreak.— Dana 248 

109. Micipsa to Jugurtha.— Sallust 250 

110. The hospitality and the revenge of o.n Indian. . . ib. 

111. Speech of Logan, a Mingo chief. ..... 251 

112. The rapid march of civilisation. — Indian Chief. . ib. 

113. The effects of civilisation upon the Indians. — Red Jacket. 252 

114. FalstafPs soliloquy on honour. — Shakspeare. . . 253 

115. Part of the speech of Richard III. the night preceding the 

battle of Bosworth. — Shakspeare. . . . 254 

116. The world compared to a stage. — Shakspeare. . . ib. 

117. Rural life in England. — Irving. .... 255 

118. Hannibal's address to Scipio Africanus. — Hooke. . . 258 

119. The pig.— Smart 259 

120. The ocean. — Drummond 261 

121. Address to his elbow chair, new clothed. — Somerville. 263 

122. Close of Mr. Brougham's speech on the reform bill, . 264 

123. A mother's death.— Crabbe 265 

124. Queen Margaret's address to the lords, before the battle of 

Tewksbury. — Shakspeare. ..... 267 

125. Public faith.— Ames 268 

126. The responsibility devolving on the American people. — E. 

T. Fitch. . 269 

127. The obligations of America to England. — Edward Everett. 270 

128. The suffering of the pilgrims. — Edward Everett. . . 272 
.129. Vain boasting treated contemptuously. Hotspur and 

Glendower. — Shakspeare. ..... 273 

130. The death of CharVs James Fox.— Sheridan. . . 275 

131. Speech of the Duke of Buckingham before his execution. — 

Shakspeare 276 

132. Apostrophe to the ocean. — Byron. .... 277 

133. Our obligations to the officers of the Revolution, and our 

sympathy due to their descendants. — E. Livingston. 278 

134. iEneas to Queen Dido, giving an account of the sack of 

Troy.— Virgil 278 

135. The settlement of the western states. — Webster. . 281 

136. Conclusion of Mr. Hayne's speech in reply to Mr. Webster. 283 

137. Characters of Lord Chatham and Mr. C. Townsend. — Burke. 285 

138. Hector in battle.— Shakspeare 290 

139. Prologue to Henry IV. — Shakspeare. . . . ib. 

140. Impoitance of literature. — Lord Lyttleton. . . . 291 

141. On the nature of the soul. — Jchnson. . . . 295 

142. The fearlessness of conscious innocence. — Robert Emmet. 298 



THE 



ORATOR'S OWN BOOK. 



DIRECTIONS FOR PUBLIC SPEAKING. 

HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF HEARD WITHOUT ANY DIFFICULTY. 

The first thing to which a speaker should attend, when 
he rises, is to make himself heard, not only with ease to 
himself, but to those who compose his auditory; for if he is 
not heard without difficulty, the assembly will not take the 
trouble of attending, as they will be unwilling to be annoyed 
with that which requires so much of their attention. Be- 
sides, the ear being at such great pains to make out the 
words, the mind will become inattentive to the matter de- 
livered. 

To avoid these inconveniences, you should have a strong, 
clear voice, so that you may be able to fill the place in 
which you speak, and that your tones may reach the ear of 
the farthest person in attendance. Some persons have this 
power naturally, but by those whom nature has not so fa- 
voured, much may be done if they call in the assistance of 
art, supposing there is no defect in their organs of speech. 

HOW TO STRENGTHEN THE VOICE. 

If your voice be only weak and inclined to tenuity, speak 
aloud in your moments of solitude ; at first do not deliver 
or read out much at one time, for you may thereby injure 
2 



14 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

instead of strengthen your organs. Increase the quantity 
by degrees, for it is by degrees and perseverance that you 
may hope to accomplish your purpose. Your organs will 
thus gradually open, and your tones gain power daily. It is 
surprising how practice will strengthen and give vigour to 
your voice, and ultimately bring it to a perfection that will 
enable the speaker to do almost any thing with it. That of 
Demosthenes was naturally weak, and it was by practice 
alone that he brought it to sufficient strength. If, therefore, 
you have nothing to complain of but a weak voice, do not 
despair, but pursue what others have successfully done be- 
fore you, and read or deliver aloud by yourself, as much as 
you think will not overstrain your powers. 

FALTERING. HOW TO GET RID OF IT. 

If you are apt to falter in your speech, accustom your- 
self, in your private readings, to pronounce your words and 
syllables so distinctly one after another, that they may 
all have their full sound and proportion. When you have 
done this for some time, and have got a habit of speaking 
deliberately plain, you may afterwards express yourself more 
fluently, and without that care and deliberation so essen- 
tially necessary at first. If you find it a very difficult matter 
to avoid this fault of faltering or stammering when you 
come to particular sentences or phrases, you would do well 
to change the order of the words, inserting a smooth particle 
or two, and putting synonymous words into the place of those 
which made you falter, and you will thus easily correct your- 
self of the error. 

SPEAKING TOO LOUD. 

It is very unbecoming and disagreeable to speak so loud, 
or rather to bellow out such a tremendous sound as renders 
every thing said so confused, that all articulation is de- 
stroyed. Many people think that this gives a dignity and 
majesty to what they say ; but on the contrary, it deprives 
their speeches of one of their greatest objects, that of being 
clearly and distinctly heard. This method is so destructive 
of all good speaking, that the words may be said not to be 
uttered, but that every thing is a confused huddle of sound 
and noise. 



orator's own book. 15 

mumbling, or speaking to yourself. 
This is an error quite contrary to the one just mentioned, 
and takes place when a man does not open his mouth wide 
enough to give proper room for his words to pass. By this 
means he makes a kind of rumbling noise about the roof of 
his mouth, as if he were speaking out of a cave or a hogs- 
head, and hardly ever sends forth one distinct sound, or 
conveys one articulate word, much farther than his teeth 
or lips. This hollow way of speaking is no less unpleasant 
than the one above mentioned. 

THE VOICE TO BE MADE SOFT AND AGREEABLE TO THE EAR. 

As the wish of a speaker is certainly to be heard with 
pleasure and delight, he ought to endeavour to make his 
voice as sweet, soft, and agreeable as he possibly can. 
Every thing harsh or discordant in his tones must be got 
rid of; these for the most part arise from nothing but bad 
habits. But where the fault lies in the natural formation of 
his organs, no effectual remedy can be immediately adminis- 
tered ; perseverance and a little labour, however, may cer- 
tainly do much. That the art of softening and harmonising 
the voice may be acquired by care and industry is plain, 
from what Cicero did in this particular ; for he had a very 
rude coarse voice before he went into Greece, but by stay- 
ing there some time he brought it, by habit, to so much 
sweetness and delicacy, that he charmed the ear with the 
softest sounds imaginable. You must therefore try to give 
your voice such a smoothness, that the turns, tones, and 
cadences of it may please the ear of your auditor, although 
he should not understand in the least either your language, 
or the subject you are speaking of. 

NEVER SPIT, OR HEM, WHILE SPEAKING. 

Some people have a custom of spitting or hemming in 
their speech, which is not only disgusting to the eyes and 
ears of their hearers, but considerably interrupts their de- 
livery. Both these vices should be carefully avoided. 

OF VARYING THE VOICE. 

You ought to vary the voice according to the changes of 
your subject, the passions you would express yourself, or 



16 orator's own book. 

excite in others, the several parts of your speech, and ac- 
cording to the nature of the words you make use of. There 
is nothing so grating to the ear of an auditory, or that gives 
them so much disgust, as a voice continually in the same 
key, without the least division or variety, and yet this is 
the common fault of most speakers. There are few voices 
so bad that they might not be rendered not only bearable, 
but pleasant, if their owners knew how to give them those 
turns and variations which are so necessary in the course 
of a speech, in order to keep alive the attention of the 
hearer. A uniformity of tone not only palls upon the ear, 
but is extremely prejudicial to whatever you say. It places 
every part of a speech on the same level, takes away all 
power from that which ought to have the greatest strength, 
not only of argument, but of expression, and reduces all to 
that equality of sound, which gives no more distinction to 
the passions than to the driest part of a cold and regular 
narration. This monotony is a too common fault on the 
stage, in the pulpit, the senate, at the bar, and, in fact, in 
every place where public speaking is practised. 

HOW TO CURE YOURSELF OF A MONOTONOUS TONE. 

The best way to get rid of a monotony of tone, is to 
attend particularly to common conversation, to the chit-chat 
of a tea table, or the method with which people pronounce 
their ordinary discourse. Mind likewise the way that wo- 
men express themselves when they feel the subject they 
talk upon ; such as when they pronounce their sorrows for 
the loss of a husband, a child, or any other fond and beloved 
relative. When you have done this, endeavour to express 
yourself, when in private, after the same manner as if upon 
the same occasions. By these means you will insensibly im- 
prove your voice, and, in time, give it that richness and 
variety which are essentially necessary to your becoming a 
popular speaker. 

RULES FOR VARYING THE VOICE. 

There are the following distinctions in the voice — a high 
tone or a low one, a vehement or a soft one, a swift or a 
slow one. The speaker's business is to keep up a just 
measure in these distinctions, and thereby observe that 
variety which 1 have shown is so essential. 



orator's own book. 17 

The principal thing is to maintain a proper medium of 
tone, because any extreme is exceedingly disagreeable. 

First. With respect to its height : You ought not to raise 
it continually to the highest note it can reach ; nor, on the 
other hand, must you sink it so low as to render yourself 
scarcely intelligible. To be constantly straining it to the 
top destroys the solemnity of preaching, the weight and dig- 
nity of pleading, and gives to every thing you say a squeak- 
ing effeminacy, unbecoming a manly and impressive speaker. 
It often, likewise, creates a harsh and unmusical sound, and 
frequently occasions a hoarseness in the throat, that will 
prevent you from being able to do the smallest justice to 
whatever you afterwards say. The contrary extreme is 
just as bad : for to utter in a low bass is a kind of mutter- 
ing, and you may as well sit down as continue in such an 
unintelligible manner, not one word in ten reaching the ears 
of your auditors. To cure yourself of these imperfections, 
when you are alone attune the tones of your voice to your 
ear, and whatever offends it immediately try to amend, and 
bring the scale to that harmonious sound which is pleasant 
to yourself; for if your organs of hearing be perfect, they 
will serve, in this respect, as a just and faithful guide. 

NOT TO BE TOO VIOLENT WITH YOUR VOICE. 

Do not be fond of forcing your tones too often to that ve- 
hemence which you cannot support long without consider- 
able pain to yourself; this, perhaps, might be the means of 
cracking your voice, which, like the strings of a musical 
instrument, frequently breaks when wound up too high. On 
the contrary, you should not be too gentle, as this destroys 
the force and energy of your speech, and makes it no more 
attended to than the flimsy tone of an ordinary story teller. 

TOO GREAT A VOLUBILITY TO BE AVOIDED, 

The volubility of your utterance ought always to be mo- 
derated in such a manner as to prevent you from being too 
precipitate, a fault which most people commit, and which 
injures very materially their articulation ; for it often creates 
a thickness in their speaking, one word following another 
with such rapidity that all pronunciation is destroyed, and 
every thing is hurried and confused. This is a vicious 
mode of delivery, and whatever abilities you may otherwise 
2* 



18 orator's own book. 

have, this one error will render them all useless. All 
fluency should be kept within bounds, or else it becomes an 
unmeaning gabble, and a chaotic jumble of words. The 
object of elocution is to persuade ; but how can a speaker 
expect to convince his hearers if he does not give them 
time to think, or reason, upon what he says 1 And how 
should a jury be able to keep up with a lawyer, whose lan- 
guage may be said to ride post 1 Of reasons and argu- 
ments thus hurled upon the ear as quick as flashes of light- 
ning upon the eye, it is impossible that one in twenty can 
be remembered, and consequently they must effectually fail 
of their intended effect. 

This practice of speaking too fast, without observing the 
proper pauses, is a great disadvantage to the speaker him- 
self, as well as impolite to an auditory. Distinction of pe- 
riods, the fine cadences that adorn and illustrate a speech 
with grace and ornament, cannot be preserved in thejsonfu- 
sion of precipitation ; and the proper time of drawing the 
breath not being allowed, the lungs are thereby affected. 
Every person who wishes to distinguish himself as a speaker, 
should carefully avoid this error, at the same time that he 
is aware of the opposite extreme, that of 

SPEAKING TOO SLOWLY. 

The habit of drawling out by degrees, and with the same 
regular tenor of sound, one word heavily after another, has 
a most somniferous effect. The best way is to regulate 
your tongue agreeably to your listeners, without either 
speaking faster than they can follow you, or drawling out 
your words slower than they have patience to attend to. 
Your speech should be occasionally fluent, but not too quick, 
and resemble, except where the passions are to be moved, 
more the flow of a gliding stream than the rapidity of a 
torrent. 

The distinctions in the voice here mentioned, give the 
power of great variation of tone ; but observe that each 
should change gradually, and not in sudden starts. 

TO VARY THE VOICE ACCORDING TO THE SUBJECT. 

If you speak of such things as you wish your hearers 
merely to understand, there is no need of any great heat or 
spirit in your delivery : a clear, distinct voice will answer 



orator's own book. 19 

sufficiently your purpose, because your object is not to move 
the feelings and affections so much as to inform the under- 
standing. But if you design to make your hearers admire 
the bounty and goodness of the Creator, his wisdom and 
power, you must do it with a grave voice, and with a tone 
of admiration. 

If you speak of the actions of any persons that deserve 
commendation, and such as you would wish to have your 
auditors value as much as you esteem them yourself; or if 
you speak of those that are unjust and infamous, and whom 
you would have your hearers abhor and detest as much as 
you do, you must adjust your voice to the quality of the one 
and the other, expressing the first with a full, lofty, and a 
kind of satisfactory tone ; and the other with a strong, vio- 
lent and passionate voice, and with a tone of anger and de- 
testation. 

If you speak of the events of human life, you must give, 
in the relation, those that are fortunate, a brisk and cheerful 
tone ; and those that are, on the contrary, unfortunate, with 
sad and mournful accents. The tone of mirth suits well the 
character of good fortune, and a melancholy one is proper 
for any story respecting disappointment and afflictions. The 
one is a subject of gaiety and good humour, and the other 
of melancholy and dejection. 

Things respecting nature must be spoken with a tone of 
ease and clearness, but require no exertion, we mean in 
plain narration. Yet those are not all alike, for some are 
more considerable than others with respect to their gran- 
deur, beauty, and lustre. Such, for instance, are the hea- 
vens, more noble than the earth ; the sun and stars are far 
- superior to herbs and insects ; and, therefore, they are not 
to be spoken of with the same tone of voice, or equal stress 
of pronunciation. 

The actions and events of human life, too, are not all si- 
milar, because a great crime, or an extraordinary cruelty, 
is infinitely worse than the omission of the payment of a 
common debt ; the noble exploits of a brave conqueror are 
to be considered as deserving a higher rank, than the vulgar 
actions of a captain of a mob ; and the safety of a whole 
people is of more consequence than the interest of a pri- 
vate individual. They then consequently require, whenever 
they are introduced into a discourse, a different kind of 



20 orator's own book. 

delivery, according to the diversity of the subjects ; for it 
would be ridiculous to speak of common and ordinary things, 
with a solemn tragical tone ; and equally absurd, on the 
other hand, to speak of great and important affairs, with a 
tone of unconcern and familiarity, fit only for the prattle of 
a tea table. 

HOW TO VARY THE VOICE ACCORDING TO THE PASSIONS. 

The best way to make others feel the same passion or 
affection of the mind you would wish to express, is to consi- 
der with care and attention what you are going to speak of. 
" Force your soul (as Shakspeare says,) to your own con- 
ceit," and you will thereby be sensibly touched with the 
subject, and be able to move others upon it with more effec- 
tual sympathy. Some orators have brought, by art, a coun- 
terfeit resemblance of feeling to much perfection; and 
although, at the time, they have not felt themselves, still 
have contrived to make their auditors feel, and that to an 
astonishing degree. 

But there have been but few who have excelled in this 
talent ; for without it is exquisitely done, the whole decep- 
tion is immediately seen through, and consequently can 
have no other power but that of creating risibility in the 
audience. 

The method above advised is infinitely the best, and can, 
by habit, be accomplished by almost every body whose feel- 
ings are properly refined. If you are affected, your emo- 
tion will soon display itself by the voice, which, like the 
string of an instrument, will sound as it is touched. It will 
express love by a soft, gay, and charming tone ; hatred by 
a sharp, sullen, and severe one ; joy with a full, flowing, and 
brisk one; and grief with a dull, heavy, and sorrowful one, 
occasionally heaving a sigh from the bosom. Fear is de- 
monstrated by a trembling, agitated voice, sometimes inter- 
rupted by a perplexity and apprehension of thought. Con- 
fidence, on the contrary, is discovered by a loud, strong tone, 
always bold and daring, but ever within the bounds of de- 
cency and moderation. Anger is expressed by a sharp, im- 
petuous, and violent tone, often taking breath, and the utter- 
ance frequently smothered by the strength of the passions ; 
as, for instance, in the tragedy of Cymbeline, when Posthu- 
mus suspects the continency of Imogen : 






orator's oavn book. 21 

" No swearing — 
If you will swear you have not done it, you lie. — 
And I will kill thee if thou dost deny 
Thou'st made me a cuckold. 

O that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal — 

I will go there — and do it in the court — before 
Her father — I'll do something — 

Oh ! all the devils ! 

This yellow Iachimo in an hour — was't not ? — 
Or less — at first — perchance he spoke not. 

You must, of course, speak these words with an elevated 
and enraged tone, and with the accents of a man all on fire, 
and in a fury next to distraction. And when Lear is denied 
the liberty of speaking to his daughter : 

"Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! — 
Fiery ? what fiery quality ? 

My breath and blood ! 

Fiery ? the fiery duke ? tell the hot duke that !— " 

Again, in the same play : 

" Darkness and devils ! — 

Saddle my horses — call my train together — 
Degenerate bastard — I'll not trouble thee." 

It is evident that these expressions must be spoken in such 
a manner as if the passion had almost choked up your deli- 
very, and that you cannot utter more words together, your 
choler and vexation being so intense. 

If you are moved with compassion, and your tones be in 
unison with your feelings, you will express yourself with a 
gentle compassionate voice. 

ESTEEM OR ADMIRATION. HOW TO EXPRESS THEM. 

If you would wish to impress your audience with a re- 
spect for the character of any particular person or persons 
of whom you are speaking, and would testify your own es- 
teem of him or them, you should do it with a lofty tone. 

CONTEMPT. HOW TO EXPRESS IT BY THE VOICE. 

If you would wish to show the contempt you have for a 
man, and expose him to the audience, you must do it with a 
scornful tone, but without the smallest passion, eagerness, or 
violence of voice. You would be laughed at if you answered 
a dull reason with heat and choler, or spoke in a passion 
against that which deserves only to be trifled with. It 



22 orator's own book. 

would be silly to exert the last effort of your voice, in reply 
to some puny insignificant arguments, as if you made use of 
Hercules's club to kill a worm, which is easily trod to 
pieces and crushed under foot. 

A GRIEVANCE COMPLAINED OF. HOW TO BE EXPRESSED. 

When you speak of any abuses you have received from a 
person, you must of course deliver it in a different manner 
from the last, and express the injustice you complain of 
with an elevated tone, proportioning the vehemence and 
passion of your voice to the cruelty of the injury; for if 
you spoke it without the least heat or concern, your audi- 
tors would neither believe what you said to be true, nor that 
you were in the smallest degree aggrieved. This was the 
reason that Demosthenes reprimanded a man that came to 
him upon an assault and battery, and desired him to plead 
his cause for him ; telling him the plain truth of the busi- 
ness with a great deal of simplicity, and showing no manner 
of concern or vexation by his voice. " Why," said the 
counsellor, " I cannot believe what you tell me." But 
another man having told the same story over again in a 
great passion, with a spirit of fury and revenge for the af- 
front, " Well, I believe you now — you speak with the accent 
and zeal of a man who has been assaulted and beaten." 
This plainly shows in what a tone of voice he thought a 
person ought to speak upon oppression and injury, either to 
be believed or to make good his cause. 

Almost innumerable are the situations in which the 
changes and inflexions of the voice are highly necessary. 
The best way to acquire the faculty of varying the voice, 
not only when the passions are concerned, but in places 
where they are not called forth, yet where great difference 
of tones is necessary, is to be often reading good authors 
aloud, as nothing will be found to improve you so much in 
this particular. 

EXORDIUM. WHAT KIND OF TONE TO USE IN IT, 

The exordium ought to be spoken with a low and modest 
voice ; to begin in an unpresuming tone is not only agree- 
able to the auditors, as it shows how great a respect you 
have for them, but is also an advantage to yourself; for you 
will thereby be able to manage your voice much better, and 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK 23 

work it up, by degrees of moderation, to a higher pitch of 
warmth and passion, which, if not attended to, will cause 
you at first to be out of breath, for want of proper manage- 
ment, and perhaps you will not be able to recover yourself 
during the whole of your speech. This does not, however, 
mean that you should begin so low as to be heard by only 
a few people ; but on the contrary, you ought to speak at 
first, so clear and distinct as to be heard without the least 
difficulty by every attentive auditor. Some clergymen are 
very faulty in beginning their discourses so low, that few 
can hear them ; they increase the fault when all of a sudden 
they raise their voices to such a height, that every one's 
ear is offended. 

The proper method is to speak the exordium in a soft and 
easy tone, and in a lower key, together with a more humble 
address, than the other parts of your speech. This rule 
admits of an exception ; for there are some exordiums that 
do not fall under it ; such as those which begin in an abrupt 
and unexpected manner. 

NARRATION. WHAT TONE NECESSARY. 

It is not in the least necessary to raise your voice to any 
great vehemence, as many do, upon the proposition or nar- 
ration of your speech; for your business in this part of your 
oration is to inform your hearers, in order to make them 
properly understand the subject in question. It is therefore 
sufficient that your tone be a little higher than that in 
which you speak the exordium ; only you must take care 
that your articulation be very clear and distinct, because 
the narration lays the ground-work of the whole speech, and 
therefore it is absolutely necessary that you should make it 
well heard, if you intend to raise your arguments upon the 
foundation. This is not the proper place for any vehemence 
of voice, which must be kept in reserve. 

CONFIRMATION AND CONFUTATION. WHAT TONE NECESSARY. 

In these lay the greatest stress of your speech, and the last 
effort of your voice ; for as your mind is more engaged 
here, in the first, by setting forth your arguments, and in 
the second, by solving your adversary's objections, and at 
this place all the adorning figures of rhetoric are made use 
of; you ought therefore to speak with the greatest force 






24 orator's own book. 

and impression, and give your delivery as much variety of 
tone as possible, confining the whole, however, within the 
bounds of decency and moderation. 

PERORATION. WHAT TONE TO BE USED. 

You would do well to make a considerable pause between 
this part and the former, and begin it with a lower tone 
than that in which you spoke the confutation. As you 
proceed a little, you should break forth into a louder 
voice, and conclude your speech with a kind of triumphal 
tone, upon an assurance that you have sufficiently made 
good your cause, and that to the entire satisfaction of your 
whole audience. 

FIGURES OF RHETORIC. WHAT TONE TO BE USED IN SOME 
OF THEM. 

Exclamation. The proper tone to he used. 

The figure Exclamation clearly shows by its name that 
it must be pronounced with a louder voice, and a more im- 
pressive accent than any other. 

The same lofty tone is necessary when there is something 
extraordinary in what you are going to say. 

Prosopopoeia. 

You ought, in this figure, to change your voice so that it 
may immediately appear as if you were not speaking for 
yourself, but for another person introduced in the course of 
your speech. You must likewise vary your tone according 
to the character and business of the assumed personage. 
For instance, if you bring into your discourse a plain, vene- 
rable old man, your manner of speaking for him would be, 
of course, very different from that you would make use of for 
a young fashionable rake. 

If you would introduce a man talking with himself upon 
a point of great moment, and arguing in his own breast 
what he should do in the business, you must do it with a low 
voice, as if he were only speaking to himself, and within his 
own hearing alone, intending not to be overheard by any 
other person. 



orator's own book. 25 

Apostrophe. The tone necessary. 

You ought particularly to attend, in this figure, to the 
nature of the object you address, and to the reasons you 
have in making use of it, so that you may adjust the turn 
of your voice accordingly. For instance, when you speak 
to inanimate things you must raise your voice above an 
ordinary pitch, or a common tone, as no doubt Cicero did 
in pronouncing that fine apostrophe, in his speech for Milo : 
" I call you to witness, ye mounts, and groves of Alba ! and 
ye ruined altars of the Albans ! once glowing with social 
and equal rights. Ye altars ! which the profane madness 
of Clodius has overthrown, and buried under the frantic 
piles of tasteless extravagance." 

If you make an apostrophe to God, many writers on ora- 
tory have pointed out the necessity of raising your voice to 
a considerable height, as if you were to be heard afar off; 
for when you speak, say they, as it were, to the Divinity, 
you ought, of course, to do so in a higher strain, and in a 
loftier tone, than if you were speaking to men upon the 
same level as yourself. This method, in some cases, will 
answer very well ; but, in many others, a low, grave, and 
deliberate tone will suit much better the solemnity of an ap- 
peal to the Deity. 

Epimone. In what tone to utter it. 
In this figure the speaker presses upon a particular point, 
and still insisting upon it, expresses it over and over again, 
until he makes it ridiculous by the repetition. Here you 
would do well to use a brisk, and, as it were, a kind of in- 
sulting tone upon those parts where you lay the principal 
stress, in order to rivet them upon the attention of your 
hearers. 

Parrhesia. The tone necessary. 
This is a figure in which you take the liberty of saying 
very bold things — in fact whatever you like, let the danger 
be what it will, where there is any confidence in the cause, 
or any fear of losing it. When you practise it, your voice 
must be full and loud. 

Climax. How to manage the voice. 
When your speech climbs up by degrees through several 
3 



26 

clauses of a sentence to a period or full point, it is evident 
that the voice must accordingly rise by the same grada- 
tions of elevation to answer every step of the figure, until 
it is at the utmost height of it. 

Antithesis. How to speak it. 

You must particularly distinguish both the contraries, and 
pronounce the first of them with a different tone from the 
latter ; this with a louder accent than that, to show the op- 
position between the one and the other, and to adjust the 
voice to the contrariety. 

I shall not trouble the reader with any more of the figures 
which rhetoricians have given us, it not being necessary to 
our present purpose, and shall therefore close them with the 
antithesis. 

BREATH. HOW TO MANAGE IT IN SPEAKING. 

There are sentences very short, each part of which is but 
a simple expression, and consists only of one single propo- 
sition, as the following : " He died young, but he died 
happy. His friends have not had him long, but his death is 
the greatest trouble and grief they ever had. He has en- 
joyed the sweets of the world only for a little while, but he 
never tasted its bitters." 

These periods can not only be performed with one 
breath, but can hardly be pronounced otherwise, without 
considerably weakening their expression. 

There are some sentences that are longer, such as the 
following : " Look upon the world as a place where you 
will be losing something every day, till you have lost all and 
have no more to lose ; and with these meditations prepossess 
your soul, that, having its original from heaven, it will one 
day have the happiness to return thither." 

And this sentence may be also pronounced at a breath, if 
your voice be tolerably good. If you cannot do it with ease 
to yourself, you must practise it ; for a period so delivered 
comes rounder and fuller to the ear, and appears with more 
force and beauty than if you take breath often. 

LONG BREATH NECESSARY IN A SPEAKER. HOW TO AC- 
QUIRE IT. 

You must endeavour, by frequent exercise, to acquire a 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 27 

long breath ; but this must be done by degrees, for nature 
is not to be changed in a moment ; and though she may do 
much, art must be called in to assist. It is said that Demos- 
thenes, who had naturally a short breath, gave a comedian 
a thousand drachms to improve him. He exercised himself 
upon all the difficulties of respiration, and while running up 
a hill repeated verses, or parts of his harangues. This 
custom strengthened his lungs, and he in a short time ac- 
complished his purpose. 

CLAUSES OF A PERIOD. HOW TO MANAGE THEM. 

In distinguishing the several parts of a period, you must 
do it as if there were only one in a sentence. Where the 
distinctions of the clauses are necessarily prominent, you 
must distinguish them by your pronunciation without taking 
breath, unless there are so many that one single respiration 
cannot reach the end of the whole. 

SHORT PERIODS. PAUSES AFTER THEM DIFFERENT FROM 
THOSE AFTER LONG ONES. 

It is proper to make a pause after every period in propor- 
tion to the length. This rule must of course be broken in 
upon, when the sense requires that you should wait for a 
considerable time after a sentence, in order to leave an im- 
pression of some weighty matter upon the mind, although 
the sentence perhaps may be very brief; and, on the con- 
trary, some long periods and sentences, after which but a 
short pause is required, as containing little that is worthy 
of impressing particularly on the attention. 

PRONUNCIATION. 

Your pronunciation ought to resemble that commonly 
practised in the ordinary conversation of polite circles. 
The best pronunciation in use you must make yourself ac- 
quainted with, for it is the standard of pronunciation for the 
time, and fashion regulates this as every thing else. The 
changes which occur you must be careful to note, and rather 
follow than attempt to lead in this important particular. 
Your business as a speaker is to pronounce in such a man- 
ner as not to offend the ears of your auditors, and this is 
only to be accomplished by speaking the language as your 
cotemporaries speak it, whom you are sure from their sta- 



28 

tion use no vulgarisms. Cant phrases are to be avoided as 
vicious and offensive, if often repeated. You may, however, 
touch the chord of a particular class whom you are address- 
ing, by occasionally, though rarely, descending to the level 
of their comprehension, as in employing a term in common 
use among a particular set of tradesmen; this requires cau- 
tion, and should not be attempted by a beginner for fear of 
offending where he designed to flatter. You should have 
no hesitation in asking advice from a friend who has had 
better opportunities than yourself: this is a rule that you 
should remember and act upon in other particulars of life 
and conduct. To bring your mode of speaking and pro- 
nouncing to the highest polish and refinement, is one of the 
most important objects that can claim your attention ; to 
this end take every suitable opportunity to listen to the best 
models of your age or country. 

TO KEEP YOUR VOICE UP TO THE END OF A SENTENCE. 

Many speakers have a most vicious habit of gradually 
and regularly lowering their voices as they proceed in a sen- 
tence, and when they arrive at the last word it is scarcely 
intelligible — an error you should particularly avoid. Your 
tone must generally be kept up upon the pronunciation of 
the last word of a period, as audibly as in any other part. 

ACTION. 

Action is one of the most important parts of oratory. 
The ancient orators considered it so essential a qualification, 
that Demosthenes declared that it combined, in itself, all the 
other qualities of elocution ; and Tully was of the same 
opinion when he said, that it had the sole power and princi- 
pal command of speech, and that it was the eloquence of 
the body. Quintilian wrote more about it than any other 
writer of former times, and with greater judgment. Many 
of his rules may be read, even at the present time, with 
considerable advantage, although he has confined his in- 
structions solely to the bar. Several things, however, he 
recommends the practice of, that cannot now be used ; such 
as beating the brow, the head, the breast, and thigh. Fre- 
quent stamping he also advises. These motions in his 
time were much admired, but in ours could not be endured. 



orator's own book. 29 

Hints respecting Action, to those who wish to speak grace- 
fully in public. 

Action is so generally allowed to be absolutely necessary 
in the good delivery of a speech, that every person who ex- 
presses his sentiments in public is sure to practise it, but for 
the most part in so awkward, so inelegant, and so inexpres- 
sive a manner, that the eye of the auditor being disgusted 
and repelled at the picture before him, the matter delivered, 
however ingenious and to the purpose, fails of its effect. 
How to meliorate gentlemen in this particular, as well as in 
others, is the object of these remarks ; although I shall 
content myself with merely giving such hints as I am con- 
vinced will, when called forth into use, be found of essential 
practical service. 

In order to correct bad habits, and attain an elegant and 
expressive action in speaking, I particularly recommend the 
choice of such companions as are considered by the world 
as well-bred and polished in their manners. Attend closely 
to the method with which they express themselves ; and, 
when you return home, endeavour to call back your recol- 
lection to such parts of their action as most forcibly engaged 
your attention, and afforded you the greater pleasure. Make 
a point, also, of remembering the sentences or expressions 
that gave rise to them, and try to to repeat them (if before 
a glass the better,) in the same manner that pleased you, 
and by so doing it will be in your power to compare your 
own method with those of other people, and correct your- 
self accordingly. If any one of your acquaintances is more 
particularly distinguished for the elegance of his manners 
than the others, be frequently with him, closely and atten- 
tively watch his every motion, action, and gesture ; and thus, 
by having a pleasing and graceful picture before your eyes, 
you will, by endeavouring to imitate what you admire, rid 
yourself of whatever bad habits you may have, and become, 
in time, almost a type of the object of your admiration. 

I shall here introduce a few rules, that may assist you in 
the attainment of the object before us. 

How to use the hands in Action. 
The hands are the chief instruments of action, and can 
be used in as many ways as there are things which they 
are capable of signifying. We make use of them in 
3* 



30 orator's own book. 

Accusing, Intreating, 

Acquitting, Admiring, 

Promising, Affirming, 

Threatening, &c. &c. 

And, in fact, in representing almost every thing we speak 
of, and require so many different actions of the hands. It 
was their general use that made Quintilian say, that the 
other parts of the body most materially assist him that 
speaks, but the hands, as it were, speak themselves. The 
principal thing, however, is to move them with grace and 
elegance. The following rules may be of some service. 

First. Use no Action at the beginning of your speech. 

You must make use of no action when you begin to speak, 
at least but very little, unless you make a kind of an abrupt 
commencement, which sometimes happens. 

Second. Never clap your hands. 
You ought never to clap your hands ; nor ought clergy- 
men to thump the pulpit or beat the breast, for these appear 
too much like the manners of an enthusiastic ranter, or a 
mountebank. 

Third. Action mostly with the right hand. Instances where 
the left alone may be used. 

Most of your actions ought to be with the right hand ; 
and whenever you make use of the left, let it be only to ac- 
company the other, and never lift it up as high as the right. 
To use the left hand alone is what you must particularly 
avoid, excepting when you speak of the right hand and the 
left by name ; for instance : " The Sovereign Judge of the 
world will make a separation between the good and the bad 
in the last day of judgment, placing the just on his right 
hand, and the wicked on his left." 

Here it is not only allowable but necessary to make such 
action according to the distinction, marking one of them 
with the right hand alone, and the other with the left alone. 

Fourth. To place the right hand on the breast. If left- 
handed^ how to manage. 
The right hand is naturally placed on the breast when- 
ever the speaker talks of himself, with respect to his facul- 



orator's own hook. 31 

ties, his passions, his heart, his soul, his conscience, &c. 
&c. ; but it must be done only by laying the hand gently 
upon the breast, and not violently beat it, as some people 
do. You must every where avoid making use of the left 
hand alone, with the exceptions we have made ; but there 
are some men naturally left-handed, and cannot forbear 
using the left hand by itself, because they have been accus- 
tomed to it from their infancy. In this case (although I 
am persuaded it is possible to get rid of the awkwardness 
by a little patience), I cannot advise better towards conceal- 
ing the imperfection, if they will not take the trouble of 
breaking themselves of it, than to let all their action be 
with both hands together, for then they will not offend the 
eye of the spectator with the left hand alone, which can 
make but few motions of itself, but what are disagreeable 
and inelegant in the extreme. 

Fifth. Action from the left to the right. 
Your action ought to pass from the left to the right, and 
generally end in the right, but not in a violent manner ; 
whenever the sense will permit it, (and for the most part it 
will,) lay your hand down with great gentleness and mode- 
ration. 

Sixth. When action advisable, to begin it when you speak. 
You must not begin your action, when you are to use it, 
before your speech ; it would be ridiculous, either to begin 
your action before you had opened your mouth, or to con- 
tinue it after you had done speaking. 

Seventh. Motion of your hands to suit the thing spoken of 
The movement of your hands must always answer the 
nature of the thing you speak of; which Shakspeare alludes 
to, when he says, 

" Suit the action to the word, the word to the action." 

It would be ridiculous to stretch out the arm at full 
length, when you repeat the words, " Come in," or bring 
your hands towards you, when you say, " Go back," or 
clasp your hands together at the words, " Separate them," 
or open your arms at " Close it," or hang them down when 
you mention " Raising," or hold them up, at the words 



32 orator's own book. 

" Cast them down." All these are contrary to reason, and 
expose you to the laughter and derision of your hearers. 

Eighth. Action must suit tke figures you make use of. 
Upon all perturbed parts of your speech, the action of 
the hands is particularly necessary to suit the heat and 
passion of the figures you make use of. 

Ninth. The hands never or seldom higher than the eyes. 
When you lift up the hand it ought seldom, if ever, to be 
raised higher than the eyes, and not lower than the breast, 
although there are many who are very extravagant in this 
respect, clergymen (we mean those among the dissenters) 
in particular, who sometimes raise the hand so high, as if 
threatening the heavens, and at other times, hang it dangling 
down over the pulpit, as if it were dead. This is more the 
method of a violent enthusiast, than of a polished and digni- 
fied declaimer. 

Tenth. Your arms not to be stretched out sideways from 
your body, beyond a certain distance. 
You ought not to stretch out your arms sideways, farther 
than half a foot, at most, from your body, or else your action 
will be quite out of your own sight, which is wrong, unless 
you turn your head aside to see it, which would be ridiculous. 

Eleventh. Raise your hand in exclamations, fyc. 
You must raise your hand in exclamations, so that the 
action may suit the expression, and both of them agree to 
the nature of the thing. 

Twelfth. Not to use too much action. 
You must not make use of action at every place, for 
although it is true, the hands should not be idle, still this 
does not mean, that they should be in continual motion. 
This would be below the gravity, character, and dignity of 
a speaker, and would reduce him to the level of a mimic, or 
those performers who play in pantomimes, and express every 
thing by apish gesticulation. 

Thirteenth. Some actions not to be attempted by the hands. 
There are some actions which must not be attempted by 



orator's own book. 33 

the hands, nor must you try to put yourself in the posture 
of those who make use of them ; such as fencing, making a 
bow, presenting a musket, or playing upon any musical in- 
strument, &c. &c. 

Fourteenth. When you talk for another person what action 
to use. 
Whenever you make use of the figure prosopopoeia, in 
which you introduce another person speaking, you must 
take care not to use any action that would be improper for 
him to practise, and not agreeable to the. state and condi- 
tion in which you represent him. 

Person. How it ought to he managed. 
Many people keep their bodies in continual motion, some- 
times on one side, sometimes on the other, or else regularly 
move backwards and forwards, as if oratory consisted in 
nothing else but in perpetual motion. This is so unmeaning, 
absurd, and ungraceful, that every speaker ought to break 
himself of it if he find himself inclined to it. On the other 
hand, it is as bad to stand immovable as a statue, during the 
whole time you are speaking without any change of posture 
whatever, as nature and reason point out the necessity of 
sometimes making a motion with the body, to correspond 
with, and give strength and vigour to the sentiment. This 
occasional change of the body is as indispensable, to a cer- 
tain degree, as the various changes of a discourse, and the 
different inflections of the voice ; the whole, if appropriately 
combined, affording the highest satisfaction, and setting 
every thing off to admiration. 

The Head. How to manage it. 
It is needless to say here what gestures and signs, what 
innumerable hints and intimations the head is capable of 
making, as every body is acquainted with them already — as 
in refusing, granting, affirming, admiring, and in a thousand 
other instances. A few things, however, respecting its re- 
gulation, we think proper particularly to mention — First, 
the head ought not to be extravagantly stretched out, as this 
is a mark of arrogance and haughtiness. Secondly, it ought 
not to hang down upon the breast, as, in so doing, the voice 
is considerably injured, being rendered less clear, distinct. 



34 orator's own book. 

and intelligible. Thirdly, it ought not to lean towards the 
shoulder, for that shows a languor and a faint indifference, 
but, on the contrary, it ought to be continually kept up, as 
it were, modestly erect, a state and position that nature re- 
quires. Fourthly, it is not handsome for the head to con- 
tinue always fixed in one immovable posture, as if you had 
no joint in your neck ; nor is it, on the other hand, pleasing, 
for it constantly to be moving, or throwing itself about at 
every turn of expression, an error too commonly practised. 
But to avoid both these awkward extremes, it must turn 
softly and gently .upon the neck, if the nature of the senti- 
ment permit it, — not only to look upon those that are di- 
rectly before your eyes in the middle of an assembly, but 
also to cast a look, now and then, upon those who are situ- 
ated on each side of you, sometimes on the right hand, and 
sometimes on the left ; and after you have done this, to re- 
turn again to such an easy and becoming posture, as your 
voice may be heard without the smallest difficulty by the 
greatest part of your auditors. It must be here added, that 
the head ought always to be turned on the same side with 
the other actions of the body, excepting only when they 
are exerted upon things we refuse ; as for instance, when 
the poet says : • 

" I will not take the proffer'd kindness — 

Or upon things we detest and abhor ; as 

" Take him away — He is loathsome to my sight." 

These must be expressed by an action of the right hand, 
while the head, at the same time, is turned to the left. 
Many other examples might be given. 

The Face. Hints respecting its management when 
speaking. 

Of all the parts of the head, it is the face that gives the 
greatest life and best grace to action ; so that great care 
ought to be taken that there is nothing disagreeable and 
unpleasant in it. It is the part most exposed to view, as an 
attentive audience have continually their eyes fixed upon it. 
It is therefore essentially necessary that, as the regulation 
of the features is of the highest importance to a speaker, 
he should carefully attend to the proper adjustment of them 
in private, before he makes a display of his powers in public. 



orator's own book 35 

The smallest irregularity or imperfection in the face is im- 
mediately taken notice of by every body, and according to 
its enormity your speech is proportionably lessened in its 
effect. In order to improve yourself in this particular, a 
looking glass may be recommended ; but I am persuaded 
that nothing can be half so advantageous as the assistance 
of a friend, who will carefully observe the common motions 
of your countenance, and frankly, and without reserve, in- 
form you of whatever he sees disagreeable or offensive to 
the eye, so that you may thereby easily correct it after- 
wards by yourself (and here the glass may be called in to 
your aid), or in his presence, if not unpleasant to you. Still, 
however, all the movements of the face ought to be adjusted 
according to the subject you treat of, the passion you would 
express, or make others feel, and the quality of the persons 
to whom you speak. 

The Eyes. How to regulate their motion. 
When you are speaking, you ought always to be casting 
your eyes upon some or other of your auditors, and rolling 
them gently about from this side to that, with an air of re- 
gard, sometimes upon one person and sometimes upon an- 
other; and not fix them, as is often the case, upon one spot 
alone. This is a dull and stupid habit, and throws a listless 
stupor over your auditory ; when, to look them modestly 
and decently in the face, as is done in familiar and common 
conversation, would keep them alive, and insure their atten- 
tion to whatever you say. Your whole aspect should always 
be pleasant, and your looks direct, never severe or sour, un- 
less when the passion or sentiment requires it, and then 
your feelings will soon dictate a change. In this case your 
imagination throws an expression into your eyes that cor- 
responds with your sensations, and the passions are depicted 
in your looks as soon as your heart is affected. 

How to draw tears from your own, as well as your auditors'' 
eyes. 
Whenever you are afflicted with a violent grief for your 
own misfortunes, or touched with great compassion for the 
miseries of another, the tear will start in your eyes. This 
made the ancient actors apply themselves, with much care 
and attention, to the acquiring a faculty of moving their 



36 orator's own book. 

imaginations to the power of weeping and shedding tears in 
abundance, whenever the occasion required ; and they suc- 
ceeded so well in this particular, and brought it to such 
perfection, that their faces used to be all over blurred with 
crying after they came off the stage. They accomplished 
this by various methods ; but the most effectual was the 
following: They contrived to employ their imaginations 
upon some real private afflictions of their own, and not upon 
the fictions of the play before them. There are many in- 
stances handed down to us by historians, of the astonishing 
effects thus produced. The speaker who would wish to at- 
tempt it ought to form within himself a very strong idea of 
the subject of the passion, and the passion itself, will then 
certainly follow of course, ferment immediately in the eyes, 
and affect the spectators with the same tenderness. Passions 
are wonderfully conveyed from one person's eyes to an- 
other's, the tears of the one melting with the heart of the 
other, and creating a visible sympathy between their imagi- 
nations and aspects. 

Of lifting tip the eyes or casting them down. 
It is plain you must regulate this according to the nature 
of the thing spoken of. For if you speak of heaven, and 
the celestial powers, you ought, without doubt, to lift up 
your eyes towards heaven ; but if you talk of the earth and 
terrestrial things, you must, of course, cast them to the 
ground. You must also govern the eyes according to the 
passion, so as to cast them down upon things of disgrace 
and contempt which you are ashamed of, and to raise them 
upon things of honour, which you can talk of with credit 
and confidence. You ought likewise more particularly to 
turn up your eyes towards that by which you affirm, and to 
lift up the hands in the same action. 

Eye-brows. How they should be managed. 
These should not be, on the one hand, altogether im- 
movable, or too full of motion ; on the other, you must not 
raise them both, as many people do when speaking of any 
thing with eagerness or anxiety ; nor ought you to lift up 
one and cast down the other ; but for the most part they 
ought to remain in the same posture and equality in which 
nature has placed them. However, they are permitted to 



orator's own book. 37 

move sometimes, and it is fit they should, when the passions 
require it ; that is to say, to contract them in sorrow ; to 
smooth and dilate them in joy ; to hang them down when- 
ever you wish to delineate modesty and humility. 

The mouth. How to manage it* 
You must take especial care not to let your mouth get in 
the least awry or uneven, as it is in the highest degree 
vulgar and disagreeable. Do not project the lower lip, as 
some people do, but let both of them be nearly even ; and 
when you occasionally stop in your speech, leave off with 
the mouth a little open. 

The Lips. Not to bite them* 
You ought never to bite your lips except when the passion 
demands it; and even then it is more adapted to the actor, 
than to the orator. Some persons have a trick of licking 
them with the tongue, which habit is exceedingly low and 
ill-bred. 

Lastly, — The Shoulders. 

There are many persons who shrug up the shoulders 
almost at every expression, which is very unmeaning ; or 
at best has but an appearance of poverty. Historians relate, 
that Demosthenes was addicted to this custom, but that he 
got rid of it by using himself for a long time, to declaim in 
a confined place, with a dagger suspended over his shoulders, 
so that as often as he shrugged them up the point pricked 
him, and thereby put him in mind of his error. By this 
method he, at last, effectually corrected himself of the habit. 
Finally, the great rule of action is to follow nature. 

Before closing these brief directions, which might have 
been extended to much greater length if it had been thought 
profitable to do so, 1 shall beg your attention to the follow- 
ing passage written by Daniel Webster, and refer particu- 
larly to the two first extracts in the volume as containing 
many truths to be stored up in your memory. 

THE TRUE NATURE OF ELOQUENCE. 

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous 
occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong 
passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, farther than 
4 



38 orator's own book. 

it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. 
Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which 
produce conviction. 

True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It 
cannot be brought from far. Labour and learning may toil 
for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may 
be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It 
must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. 

Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declama- 
tion, all may aspire after it ; they cannot reach it. It comes, 
if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the 
earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with sponta- 
neous, original, native force. 

The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments 
and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, 
when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their 
children, and their country, hang on the decision of the 
hour. 

Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and 
all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then 
feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher 
qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent ; then, self-devotion 
is eloquent. 

The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, 
the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, 
speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing 
every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right on- 
ward, to his object ; this, this is eloquence ; or, rather, it is 
something greater and higher than all eloquence ; it is 
action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 



ORATIONS, &o. 



$ 



INDUSTRY NECESSARY TO FORM THE ORATOR. H. Ware, Jr. 

The history of the world is full of testimony to prove how 
much depends upon industry : not an eminent orator has 
lived, but is an example of it. Yet, in contradiction to all 
this, the almost universal feeling appears to be, that industry 
can effect nothing, that eminence is the result of accident, 
and that every one must be content to remain just what he 
may happen to be. Thus multitudes, who come forward as 
teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be satisfied with 
the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable mediocrity, 
without so much as enquiring how they might rise higher, 
much less making any attempt to rise. 

For any other art they would have served an apprentice- 
ship, and would be ashamed to practise it in public before 
they had learned it. If any one would sing, he attends a 
master, and is drilled in the very elementary principles, and 
only after the most laborious process, dares to exercise his 
voice in public. This he does, though he has scarce any 
thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lies, in 
sensible forms, before his eye. But the extempore speaker, 
who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an opera- 
tion of the mind as well as to produce sound, enters upon 
the work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders 
that he fails ! 

If he were learning to play on the flute for public exhibi- 
tion, what hours and days would he spend in giving facility 
to his fingers, and attaining the power of the sweetest and 
most impressive execution. If he were devoting himself to 
the organ, what months and years would he labour, that he 



40 orator's own book. 

might know its compass and be master of its keys, and be 
able to draw out, at will, all its various combinations of har- 
monious sound, and its full richness and delicacy of expres- 
sion. And yet he will fancy, that the grandest, the most 
various, the most expressive of all instruments, which the 
infinite Creator has fashioned, by the union of an intellectual 
soul with the powers of speech, may be played upon with- 
out study or practice. He comes to it, a mere uninstructed 
tyro, and thinks to manage all its stops, and command the 
whole compass of its varied and comprehensive power ! He 
finds himself a bungler in the attempt, is mortified at his 
failure, and settles in his mind for ever, that the attempt is 
vain. 

Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, 
is always the reward of industry and pains. But the in- 
stances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, whose 
beginning has promised much, but who have degenerated 
wretchedly as they advanced, because they trusted to their 
gifts, and made no effort to improve. That there have never 
been other men of equal endowments with Cicero and De- 
mosthenes, none could venture to suppose ; but who have 
so devoted themselves to their art, or become equal in ex- 
cellence? If those great men had been content, like others, 
to continue as they began, and had never made their perse- 
vering efforts for improvement, what would their countries 
have benefited from their genius, or the world have known 
of their fame ? They would have been lost in the undistin- 
guished crowd, that sunk to oblivion around them. 

Of how many more will the same remark prove true I 
What encouragement is thus given to the industrious ! 
With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negli- 
gence, which suffers the most interesting and important 
truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffectual to the 
ground, through mere sluggishness in the delivery ! How 
unworthy of one, who performs the high function of a reli- 
gious instructer, upon whom depend, in a great measure, the 
religious knowledge, and devotional sentiment, and final 
character of many fellow beings, to imagine that he can 
worthily discharge this great concern, by occasionally talk- 
ing for an hour, he knows not how, and in a manner he has 
taken no pains to render correct, impressive, or attractive ; 
and which, simply through that want of command over him* 






orator's own book. 41 

self which study would give, is immethodical, verbose, 
inaccurate, feeble, trifling ! It has been said of the good 
preacher, 

That truths divine come mended from his tongue. 

Alas ! they come ruined and worthless from such a man as 
this. They lose that holy energy, by which they are to 
convert the soul, and purify man for heaven, and sink, in 
interest and efficacy, below the level of those principles, 
which govern the ordinary affairs of this lower world. 



HAMLET'S INSTRUCTIONS TO THE PLAYERS. Shakspeare. 

Speak the speech, I pray you, as 1 pronounced it to you, 
trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of 
our players do, I had as lieve the town-crier had spoke my 
lines. And do not saw the air too much with your hand, 
thus ; but use all gently ; for in the very torrent, tempest, 
and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must 
acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smooth- 
ness. Oh ! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious 
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, 
to split the ears of the groundlings : who (for the most part) 
are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and 
noise : I could have such a fellow vvhipp'd for o'erdoing 
termagant ; it out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it. 

Be not too tame neither ; but let your own discretion be 
your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the 
action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not 
the modesty of nature : for any thing so overdone is from 
the purpose of playing ; whose end, both at the first and 
now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; 
to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and 
the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. 
Now, this overdone, or come tardy of, though it make the 
unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve : the 
censure of one of which must in your allowance o'erweigh a 
whole theatre of others. Oh ! there be players that I have 
seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to 
speak it- profanely) that, neither having the accent of 
Christian, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have 
4* 



42 orator's own book. 

so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of 
nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them 
well ; they imitated humanity so abominably. 

And let those that play your clowns, speak no more than 
is set down for them : for there be of them that will them- 
selves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to 
laugh too ; though, in the mean time, some necessary ques- 
tion of the play be then to be considered : — that 's villanous, 
and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it* 



ORATION AGAINST PHILIP. Demosthenes. 

Had we been convened, Athenians ! on some new subject 
of debate, I had waited until most of the usual persons had 
declared their opinions. If I had approved of any thing 
proposed by them, I should have continued silent : if not, I 
had then attempted to speak my sentiments. But since 
those very points, on which these speakers have oftentimes 
been heard already, are, at this time, to be considered; 
though I have risen first, I presume I may expect your 
pardon ; for if they on former occasions had advised the 
necessary measures, you would not have found it needful to 
consult at present. 

First then, Athenians ! these our affairs must not be 
thought desperate ; no, though their situation seems entirely 
deplorable. For the most shocking circumstance of all our 
past conduct is really the most favourable to our future ex- 
pectations. And what is this? That our own total indolence 
hath been the cause of all our present difficulties. For 
were we thus distressed, in spite of every vigorous effort 
which the honour of our state demanded, there were then 
no hope of a recovery. 

In the next place reflect (you who have been informed 
by others, and you who can yourselves remember) how 
great a power the Lacedemonians not long since possessed ; 
and with what resolution, with what dignity, you disdained 
to act unworthy of the state, but maintained the war against 
them for the rights of Greece. Why do I mention these 
things 1 That you may know, that you may see, Athenians ! 
that if duly vigilant, you cannot have any thing to fear ; that 
if once remiss, not any thing can happen agreeable to your 



4*3 

desires : witness the then powerful arms of Lacedemon 
which a just attention to your interests enabled you to van- 
quish : and this man's late insolent attempt, which our in- 
sensibility to all our great concerns hath made the cause of 
this confusion. 

If there be a man in this assembly who thinks that we 
must find a formidable enemy in Philip, while he views, on 
one hand, the numerous armies which attend him, and on 
the other, the weakness of the state thus despoiled of its 
dominions ; he thinks justly, Yet let him reflect on this : 
there was a time, Athenians ! when we possessed Pydna, 
and Potidsea, and Methone, and all that country round : 
when many of those states now subjected to him were free 
and independent ; and more inclined to our alliance than to 
his. Had then Philip reasoned in the same manner, " How 
shall I dare to attack the Athenians, whose garrisons com- 
mand my territory, while 1 am destitute of all assistance ?" 
he would not have engaged in those enterprises which are 
now crowned with success ; nor could he have raised him- 
self to this pitch of greatness. No, Athenians ! he knew 
this well, that all these places are but prizes, laid between 
the combatants, and ready for the conqueror : that the do- 
minions of the absent devolve naturally to those who are in 
the field ; the possessions of the supine, to the active and 
intrepid. Animated by these sentiments, he overturns whole 
countries ; he holds all people in subjection ; some, as by 
the right of conquest ; others, under the title of allies and 
confederates : for all are willing to confederate with those 
whom they see prepared and resolved to exert themselves 
as they ought. 

And if you, my countrymen ! will now at length be per- 
suaded to entertain the like sentiments; if each of you, 
renouncing all evasions, will be ready to approve himself 
an useful citizen, to the utmost that his station and abilities 
demand ; if the rich will be ready to contribute, and the 
young to take the field ; in one word, if you will be your- 
selves, and banish those vain hopes which every single per- 
son entertains, while so many others are engaged in public 
business, his service will not be required ; you then, if 
heaven so pleases ! shall regain your dominions, recall those 
opportunities your supineness hath neglected, and chastise 
the insolence of this man. For you are not to imagine, 



44 orator's own book. 

that, like a god, he is to enjoy his present greatness for ever 
fixed and unchangeable. No, Athenians! there are, who 
hate him, who fear him, who envy him, even among those 
seemingly the most attached to his cause. These are pas- 
sions common to mankind : nor must we think that his 
friends only are exempted from them. It is true they lie 
concealed at present, as our indolence deprives them of all 
resource. But let us shake off this indolence ! for you see 
how we are situated ; you see the outrageous arrogance of 
this man, who does not leave it to your choice whether you 
shall act or remain quiet ; but braves you with his menaces ; 
and talks (as we are informed) in a strain of the highest ex- 
travagance : and is not able to rest satisfied with his present 
acquisitions, but is ever in pursuit of further conquests: and 
while we sit down, inactive and irresolute, encloses us on 
all sides with his toils. 

When, therefore, O my countrymen ! when will you exert 
your vigour ? When roused by some event 1 When forced 
by some necessity 1 What then are we to think of our pre- 
sent condition ? To freemen, the disgrace attending on mis- 
conduct is, in my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or, 
say, is it your sole ambition to wander through the public 
places, each enquiring of the other, " What new advices ?" 
Can any thing be more new, than that a man of Macedon 
should conquer the Athenians, and give law to Greece ? 
" Is Philip dead?" " No, but in great danger." How are 
you concerned in those rumours? Suppose he should meet 
some fatal stroke : you would soon raise up another Philip, 
if your interests are thus regarded. For it is not to his 
own strength that he so much owes his elevation, as to our 
supineness. And should some accident affect him ; should 
fortune, who hath ever been more careful of the state than 
we ourselves, now repeat her favours (and may she thus 
crown them !) be assured of this, that by being on the spot, 
ready to take advantage of the confusion, you will every 
where be absolute masters ; but in your present disposition, 
even if a favourable juncture should present you with Amphi- 
polis, you could not take possession of it, while this suspense 
prevails in your designs and in your councils. 

Some wander about, crying, Philip hath joined with the 
Lacedemonians, and they are concerting the destruction of 
Thebes, and the dissolution of some free states. Others 



orator's own book. 45 

assure us he hath sent an embassy to the king ; others, that 
he is fortifying places in Illyria. Thus we all go about 
framing our several tales. I do believe indeed, Athenians ! 
he is intoxicated with his greatness, entertains his imagina- 
tion with many such visionary prospects, as he sees no power 
rising to oppose him, and is elated with his success. But I 
cannot be persuaded that he hath so taken his measures, 
that the weakest amongst us know what he is next to do : 
(for it is the weakest among us who spread these rumours) 
— Let us disregard them : let us be persuaded of this, that 
he is our enemy, that he hath spoiled us of our dominions, 
that we have long been subject to his insolence, that whatever 
we expected to be done for us by others, hath proved against 
us, that all the resource left is in ourselves, that if we are 
not inclined to carry our arms abroad, we may be forced to 
engage here — let us be persuaded of this, and then we shall 
come to a proper determination, then shall we be freed from 
those idle tales. For we are not to be so solicitous to know 
what particular events will happen; we need but be con- 
vinced nothing good can happen, unless you grant the due 
attention to affairs, and be ready to act as becomes Athenians. 



HAMLETS SOLILOQUY. Shakspeare. 

Ham. O that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 
His canon 'gainst self-murder : 
How weary, stale, and unprofitable 
Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
Fie on't ! O fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden 
That grows to seed : Things rank and gross in nature 
Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! 
But two months dead ? Nay, not so much ! not two — 
So excellent a king, that was to this, 
Hyperion to a satyr : So loving to my mother, 
That he permitted not the winds of heaven 
Visit her face too roughly ! Heaven and earth ! 
Must I remember?— Why, she would hang on him, 
As if increase of appetite had grown 
By what it fed on; yet within a month ! *— 



46 orator's own book. 

Let me not think — Frailty, thy name is woman ! 

A little month ! or e'er those shoes were old, 

With which she follow'd my poor father's body, 

Like Niobe, all tears Why she, even she — 

O heav'n ! a beast that wants discourse of reason 

Would have mourn'd longer ! — married with mine uncle, 

My father's brother ; but no more like my father, 

Than I to Hercules. 

It is not, nor it cannot come to good. 

But break, my heart, for 1 must hold my tongue. 



ORATION AGAINST PHILIP, URGING THE SUCCOUR OF THE 
OLYNTHIANS. Demosthenes. 

In many instances, Athenians ! have the gods, in my 
opinion, manifestly declared their favour to this state : nor 
is it least observable in this present juncture. For that an 
enemy should arise against Philip, on the very confines of 
his kingdom, of no inconsiderable power, and, what is of 
most importance, so determined upon the war, that they 
consider any accommodation with him, first, as insidious, 
next as the downfall of their country : this seems no less 
than the gracious interposition of heaven itself. It must, 
therefore, be our care, Athenians ! that we ourselves may 
not frustrate this goodness. For it must reflect disgrace, 
nay, the foulest infamy upon us, if we appear to have thrown 
away not those states and territories only which we once 
commanded, but those alliances and favourable incidents, 
which fortune hath provided for us. 

To begin on this occasion with a display of Philip's 
power, or to press you to exert your vigour, by motives 
drawn from hence, is, in my opinion, quite improper. And 
why ? Because whatever may be offered upon such a sub- 
ject, sets him in an honourable view, but seems to me as a 
reproach to our conduct. For the higher his exploits have 
arisen above his former estimation, the more must the 
world admire him : while your disgrace hath been the 
greater, the more your conduct hath proved unworthy of 
your state. These things therefore 1 shall pass over. He, 
indeed, who examines justly, must find the source of all his 
greatness here, not in himself. But the services he hath 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 47 

here received, from those whose public administration hath 
been devoted to his interest ; those services which you must 
punish, I do not think it reasonable to display. There are 
other points of more moment for you all to hear ; and which 
must excite the greatest abhorrence of him, in every rea- 
sonable mind. These I shall lay before you. 

And now, should I call him perjured and perfidious, and 
not point out the instances of this his guilt, it might be 
deemed the mere virulence of malice, and with justice. 
Nor will it engage too much of your attention to hear him 
fully and clearly convicted, from a full and clear detail of 
all his actions. And this I think useful upon two accounts : 
first, that he may appear, as he really is, treacherous and 
false : and then, that they who are struck with terror, as if 
Philip was something more than human, may see that he 
hath exhausted all those artifices to which he owes his pre- 
sent elevation, and that his affairs are now ready to decline. 
For I myself, Athenians ! should think Philip really to be 
dreaded and admired, if I saw him raised by honourable 
means. But I find, upon reflection, that at the time when 
certain persons drove out the Olynthians from this assembly, 
when, desirous of conferring with you, he began with abusing 
our simplicity by his promise of surrendering Amphipolis, 
and executing the secret article of his treaty, then so much 
spoken of: that, after this, he courted the friendship of the 
Olynthians by seizing Potidaea, where we were rightful 
sovereigns, despoiling us, his former allies, and giving them 
possession : that, but just now, he gained the Thessalians, 
by promising to give up Magnesia ; and, for their ease, to 
take the whole conduct of the Phocian war upon himself. 
fn a word, there are no people who ever made the least use 
of him, but have suffered by his subtlety : his present great- 
ness being wholly owing to his deceiving those who were 
unacquainted with him, and making them the instruments 
of his success. As these states therefore raised him, while 
each imagined he was promoting some interest of theirs ; 
these states must also reduce him to his former meanness ; 
as it now appears that his own private interest was the end 
of all his actions. 

Thus then, Athenians ! is Philip circumstanced. If not, 
let the man stand forth, who can prove to me, I should have 
said to this assembly, that I have asserted these things 



48 orator's own book. 

falsely ; or that they whom he hath deceived in former in- 
stances, will confide in him for the future ; or that the Thes- 
salians, who have been so basely, so undeservedly enslaved, 
would not gladly embrace their freedom. If there be any 
one among you, who acknowledges all this, yet thinks that 
Philip will support his power, as he hath secured places of 
strength, convenient ports, and other like advantages, he is 
deceived. For when forces join in harmony and affection, 
and one common interest unites the confederating powers, 
then they share the toils with alacrity, they endure the dis- 
tresses, they persevere. But when extravagant ambition, 
and lawless power, as in his case, have aggrandised a single 
person ; the first pretence, the slightest accident, overthrows 
him, and all his greatness is dashed at once to the ground. 
For it is not, no, Athenians ! it is not possible to found a 
lasting power upon injustice, perjury, and treachery. These 
may perhaps succeed for once ; and borrow for a while, 
from hope, a gay and flourishing appearance. But time 
betrays their weakness ; and they fall into ruin of them- 
selves. For, as in structures of every kind, the lower parts 
should have the greatest firmness, so the grounds and prin- 
ciples of actions should be just and true. But these advan- 
tages are not found in the actions of Philip. 

I say then that you should despatch succours to the 
Olynthians : and the more honourably and expeditiously 
this is proposed to be done, the more agreeably to my senti- 
ments : and send an embassy to the Thessalians, to inform 
some, and to enliven that spirit already raised in others : 
for it hath actually been resolved to demand the restitution 
of Pagasae, and to assert their claim to Magnesia. And let 
it be your care, Athenians, that our ambassadors may not 
depend only upon words, but give them some action to dis- 
play, by taking the field in a manner worthy of the state, 
and engaging in the war with vigour. For words, if not 
accompanied by actions, must ever appear vain and con- 
temptible ; and particularly when they come from us, whose 
prompt abilities, and well-known eminence in speaking, 
make us to be always heard with the greater suspicion. 

Would you indeed regain attention and confidence, your 
measures must be greatly changed, your conduct totally 
reformed ; your fortunes, your persons, must appear devoted 
to the common cause; your utmost efforts must be exerted. 



orator's own book. 49 

If you will act thus, as your honour and your interest re- 
quire, then, Athenians ! you will not only discover the 
weakness and insincerity of the confederates of Philip, but 
the ruinous condition of his own kingdom will also be laid 
open. The power and sovereignty of Macedon may have 
some weight indeed, when joined with others. Thus, when 
you marched against the Olynthians, under the conduct of 
Timotheus, it proved an useful ally ; when united with the 
Olynthians against Potidaea, it added something to their 
force ; just now, when the Thessalians were in the midst of 
disorder, sedition, and confusion, it aided them against the 
family of their tyrants : and in every case, any, even a 
small accession of strength, is, in my opinion, of consider- 
able effect. But of itself, unsupported, it is infirm, it is to- 
tally distempered : for by all those glaring exploits, which 
have given him this apparent greatness, his wars, his expe- 
ditions, he hath rendered it yet weaker than it was naturally. 
For you are not to imagine that the inclinations of his sub- 
jects are the same with those of Philip. He thirsts for 
glory: this is his object, this he eagerly pursues, through 
toils and dangers of every kind ; despising safety and life, 
when compared with the honour of achieving such actions 
as no other prince of Macedon could ever boast of. But his 
subjects have no part in this ambition. Harassed by those 
various excursions he is ever making, they groan under 
perpetual calamity; torn from their business, and their 
families, and without opportunity to dispose of that pittance 
which their toils have earned ; as all commerce is shut out 
of the coast of Macedon by the war. 

Hence we may perceive how his subjects in general are 
affected to Philip. But then his auxiliaries, and the soldiers 
of his phalanx, have the character of wonderful forces, 
trained completely to war. And yet I can affirm, upon the 
credit of a person from that country, incapable of falsehood, 
that they have no such superiority. For, as he assures me, 
if any man of experience in military affairs should be found 
among them, he dismisses all such, from an ambition of 
having every great action ascribed wholly to himself: for, 
besides his other passions, the man hath this ambition in 
the highest degree. And if any person, from a sense of 
decency, or other virtuous principles, betrays a dislike of 
his daily intemperance, and riotings, and obscenities, he 
5 



50 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

loses all favour and regard; so that none are left about him, 
but wretches, who subsist on rapine and flattery, and who, 
when heated with wine, do not scruple to descend to such 
instances of revelry, as it would shock you to repeat. Nor 
can the truth of this be doubted : for they whom we all con~ 
spired to drive from hence, as infamous and abandoned, 
Callias the public servant, and others of the same stamp ; 
buffoons, composers of lewd songs, in which they ridicule 
their companions : these are the persons whom he entertains 
and caresses. And these things, Athenians ! trifling as they 
may appear to some, are to men of just discernment great 
indications of the weakness both of his mind and fortune. 
At present, his successes cast a shade over them ; for pros- 
perity hath great power to veil such baseness from observa- 
tion. But let his arms meet with the least disgrace, and all 
his actions will be exposed. This is a truth, of which he 
himself, Athenians ! will, in my opinion, soon convince you, 
if the gods favour us, and you exert your vigour. For as 
in our bodies, while a man is in health he feels no effect of 
any inward weakness, but, when disease attacks him, every 
thing becomes sensible in the vessels, in the joints, or in 
whatever other part his frame may be disordered ; so in 
states and monarchies, while they carry on a war abroad, 
their defects escape the general eye ; but when once it 
approaches their own territory, then they are all detected. 

If there be any one among you who, from Philip's good 
fortune, concludes that he must prove a formidable enemy ; 
such reasoning is not unworthy a man of prudence. Fortune 
hath great influence, nay, the whole influence, in all human 
affairs : but then, were 1 to choose, I should prefer the for- 
tune of Athens, if you yourselves will assert your own cause, 
with the least degree of vigour, to this man's fortune. For 
we have many better reasons to depend upon the favour of 
heaven, than he has. But our present state is, in my opi- 
nion, a state of total inactivity ; and he who will not exert 
his own strength, cannot apply for aid, either to his friends 
or to the gods. It is not then surprising, that he, who is 
himself ever amidst the dangers and labours of the field ; 
who is every where ; whom no opportunity escapes ; to 
whom no season is unfavourable; should be superior to you, 
who are wholly engaged in contriving delays, and framing 
decrees, and enquiring after news. I am not surprised at 



orator's own book. 51 

this, for the contrary must have been surprising, if we, who 
never act in any single instance as becomes a state engaged 
in war, should conquer him, who, in every instance, acts 
with an indefatigable vigilance. This indeed surprises me ; 
that you, who fought the cause of Greece against Lacede- 
mon, and generously declined all the favourable opportunities 
of aggrandising yourselves ; who, to secure their property to 
others, parted with your own, by your contributions, and 
bravely exposed yourselves in battle ; should now decline 
the service of the field, and delay the necessary supplies, 
when called to the defence of your own rights : that you, in 
whom Greece in general, and each particular state, hath 
often found protection, should sit down quiet spectators of 
your own private wrongs. This, I say, surprises me : and 
one thing more ; that not a man among you can reflect how 
long a time we have been at war with Philip, and in what 
measures this time hath all been wasted. You are not to 
be informed, that, in delaying, in hoping that others would 
assert our cause, in accusing each other, in impeaching, 
then again entertaining hopes, in such measures as are now 
pursued, that time hath been entirely wasted. And are you 
so devoid of apprehension, as to imagine, when our state 
hath been reduced from greatness to wretchedness, that the 
very same conduct will raise us from wretchedness to great- 
ness ? No ! this is not reasonable, it is not natural ; for it is 
much easier to defend, than to acquire dominions. But, 
now, the war hath left us nothing to defend : we must ac- 
quire. And to this work you yourselves alone are equal. 

This, then, is my opinion. You should raise supplies ; 
you should take the field with alacrity. Prosecutions should 
be all suspended until you have recovered your affairs ; let 
each man's sentence be determined by his actions ; honour 
those who have deserved applause ; let the iniquitous meet 
their punishment : let there be no pretences, no deficiencies 
on your part ; for you cannot bring the actions of others to 
a severe scrutiny, unless you have first been careful of 
your own duty. What indeed can be the reason, think 
you, that every man whom we have sent out at the head of 
an army, has deserted your service, and sought out some 
private expedition 1 (if we must speak ingenuously of these 
our generals also,) the reason is this : when engaged in the 
service of the state, the prize for which they fight is yours. 



52 orator's own book. 

Thus, should Amphipolis be now taken, you instantly pos- 
sess yourselves of it : the commanders have all the danger, 
the rewards they do not share. But, in their private enter- 
prises, the dangers are less ; the acquisitions are all shared 
by the generals and soldiers ; as were Lampsacus, Sigseum, 
and those vessels which they plundered. Thus are they all 
determined by their private interest. And, when you turn 
your eyes to the wretched state of your affairs, you bring 
your generals to a trial ; you grant them leave to speak ; 
you hear the necessities they plead ; and then acquit them. 
Nothing then remains for us, but to be distracted with end- 
less contests and divisions, (some urging these, some those 
measures), and to feel the public calamity. For in former 
times, Athenians ! you divided into classes, to raise supplies. 
Now the business of these classes is to govern ; each hath 
an orator at its head, and a general, who is his creature ; 
the three hundred are assistants to these, and the rest of 
you divide, some to this, some to that party. You must 
rectify these disorders : you must appear yourselves : you 
must leave the power of speaking, of advising, and of acting, 
open to every citizen. But if you suffer some persons to 
issue out their mandates, as with a royal authority ; if one 
set of men be forced to fit out ships, to raise supplies, to 
take up arms ; while others are only to make decrees against 
them, without any charge, any employment besides ; it is 
not possible that any thing can be effected seasonably and 
successfully ; for the injured party ever will desert you ; 
and then your sole resource will be to make them feel your 
resentment instead of your enemies. 



TO THE AMERICAN FLAG. Halleck. 

When Freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there ! 
She mingled with its gorgeous dies 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white, 
With streakings from the morning light ! 



orator's own book. 53 

Then, from her mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumping loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven, 
When strides the warrior of the storm, 

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven ! 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free — 
To hover in the sulphur smote, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbinger of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal trumpet's tone, 
And the line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet — 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn, 
To where thy meteor glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance ? 
And when the cannon's mouthings loud, 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall, 
Like shoots of flame on midnight pall? 
There shall thy victor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall fall beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death ! 

Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave, 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave, 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 

5* 



54 



And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
The dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendours fly, 
In triumph o'er the closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's only home, 

By angel hands to valour given! 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven, 
For ever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe, but falls before us. 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 



THE OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO LAFAYETTE. 

Extract from Mr. Hayne's Speech in the Senate of the United States, upon theBilf 
making provision for Gen. Lafayette, Dec. 1824. 

I had hoped, Mr. President, that this bill would have met 
with no opposition. I had hoped that the world would see, 
that against a proposition for showing our gratitude, as a 
nation, in something more than mere words, to General La- 
fayette, not a voice would be raised. But, sir, I am disap- 
pointed : and it is therefore the irksome task of this com- 
mittee to go into detail, and to show how much we are abso- 
lutely indebted to this great man. 

It appears from some documents, sir, in possession of the 
committee, that the general, during six years of our revolu- 
tionary war, sacrificed one hundred and forty thousand dol- 
lars of his private fortune, in the service of this country. 
And how, sir, was this sacrifice made ? Under what cir- 
cumstances ? Was he one of our own citizens — one of those 
whose lives and fortunes were necessarily exposed during 
the vicissitudes of a contest for the right of self-govern- 
ment ? No, sir, no such thing. He tore himself away from 
his country and his home, to fight the battles of freedom in 
a foreign land, and to make common cause with a people to 






orator's own book. 55 

whom he owed no duty. Nor was he satisfied with the de- 
votion of his personal services. It is a matter of record on 
the pages of your history, that he armed a regiment for 
you ; that he sent a vessel laden with arms and munitions of 
war for you ; that he put shoes on the feet of your bare-foot 
and suffering soldiery. For all these services he asked no 
recompense — he received none. He spent his fortune for 
you ; he shed his blood for you ; and without acquiring any 
thing but a claim upon your gratitude, he impoverished 
himself. 

And now, sir, what would be thought of us in Europe, if 
after all that has passed, we should fail to make a generous 
and liberal provision for our venerable guest 1 We have, 
under circumstances calculated to give to the event great 
celebrity, invited him to our shores. We have received 
him with the utmost enthusiasm. The people have every 
where greeted him in the warmest terms of gratitude and 
affection. Now what will be thought of us in Europe, and 
what is much' more important, how will we deserve to be 
thought of, if we send back our venerable guest without any 
more substantial proof of our gratitude, than vague expres- 
sions of regard 1 You have made him a spectacle for the 
world to gaze on. He cannot go back to France, and be- 
come the private citizen he was when he left it. You have, 
by the universal homage of your hearts and tongues, made 
his house a shrine, to which every pilgrim of liberty, from 
every quarter of the world, will repair. At least let him 
not, after this, want the means of giving welcome to the 
Americans, who, whenever they visit the shores of France, 
will repair in crowds to his hospitable mansion, to testify 
their veneration to the illustrious compatriot of their fathers. 
I regret, sir, that I have been compelled to say thus much 
upon the subject. But, sir, I have full confidence that there 
cannot in this house, there cannot in this nation, be but one 
universal feeling of gratitude and affection for Lafayette. 



56 orator's own book. 



THE OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO GREECE. 

Extract from Daniel Webster's Speech, delivered in the House of Representatives' 
on the 19th of January, 1824, upon the following resolution : 

" Resolved, That provision ought to be made, by law, for defraying 
the expense incident to the appointment of an agent or commissioner 
to Greece, whenever the president shall deem it expedient to make 
such appointment." 

I am afraid, Mr. Chairman, that so far as my part in this 
discussion is concerned, those expectations which the public 
excitement existing on the subject, and certain associations, 
easily suggested by it, have conspired to raise, may be dis- 
appointed. An occasion which calls the attention to a spot, 
so distinguished, so connected with interesting recollections, 
as Greece, may naturally create something of warmth and 
enthusiasm. In a grave political discussion, however, it is 
necessary that that feeling should be chastised. 1 shall en- 
deavour properly to repress it, although it is impossible that 
it should be altogether extinguished. We must, indeed, fly 
beyond the civilised world ; we must pass the dominion of 
law, and the boundaries of knowledge ; we must, more espe- 
cially, withdraw ourselves from this place, and the scenes 
and objects which here surround us, if we would separate 
ourselves, altogether, from the influence of all those memo- 
rials of herself which ancient Greece has transmitted for the 
admiration and the benefit of mankind. This free form of 
government, this popular assembly, the common council, 
held for the common good, where have we contemplated its 
earliest models? This practice of free debate and public 
discussion, the contest of mind with mind, and that popular 
eloquence, which, if it were now here, on a subject like 
this, would move the stones of the capitol, whose was the 
language in which all these were first exhibited ? Even the 
edifice in which we assemble, these proportioned columns, 
this ornamented architecture, all remind us that Greece has 
existed, and that we, like the rest of mankind, are greatly 
her debtors. But I have not introduced this motion in the 
vain hope of discharging any thing of this accumulated debt 
of centuries. What I have to say of Greece, therefore, con- 
cerns the modern, not the ancient; the living, and not the 
dead. It regards her, not as she exists in history, triumph- 



orator's own book. 57 

ant over time, and tyranny, and ignorance ; but as she now 
is, contending, against fearful odds, for being, and for the 
common privilege of human nature. 

I think it right too, sir, not to be unseasonable in the ex- 
pression of our regard, and, as far as that goes, in a minis- 
tration of our consolation, to a long oppressed and now 
struggling people. I am not of those who would, in the 
hour of utmost peril, withhold such encouragement as might 
be properly and lawfully given, and when the crisis should 
be past, overwhelm the rescued sufferer with kindness and 
caresses. The Greeks address the civilised world with a 
pathos not easy to be resisted. They invoke our favour by 
more moving considerations than can well belong to the con- 
dition of any other people. They stretch out their arms to 
the Christian communities of the earth, beseeching them, 
by a generous recollection of their ancestors, by the consi- 
deration of their own desolated and ruined cities and vil- 
lages, by their wives and children, sold into an accursed sla- 
very, by their own blood, which they seem willing to pour 
out like water, by the common faith, and in the name, 
which unites all Christians, that they would extend to them 
at least some token of compassionate regard. 



SPEECH OF ADHERBAL TO THE ROMAN SENATE, IMPLORING 
THEIR ASSISTANCE AGAINST JUGURTHA. Sallust. 

Fathers ! — It is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, 
.on his death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, 
conjunctly with my unfortunate brother, Hiempsal, and my- 
self, the children of his own body, the administration of the 
kingdom of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and 
people of Rome as proprietors of it. He charged us to use 
our best endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman com- 
monwealth, in peace and war : assuring us, that your pro- 
tection would prove to us a defence against all enemies, and 
would be instead of armies, fortifications, and treasures. 

While my brother and I were thinking of nothing but 
how to regulate ourselves according to the directions of our 
deceased father — Jugurtha — -the most infamous of mankind ! 
— breaking through all ties of gratitude and of common 



58 orator's own book. 

humanity, and trampling on the authority of the Roman 
commonwealth, procured the murder of my unfortunate bro- 
ther, and has driven me from my throne and native country, 
though he knows I inherit, from my grandfather, Massinissa, 
and my father Micipsa, the friendship and alliance of the 
Romans. 

For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distressful 
circumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are 
heightened by the consideration — that I find myself obliged 
to solicit your assistance, Fathers, for the services done you 
by my ancestors, not for any I have been able to render you 
in my own person. Jugurtha has put it out of my power 
to deserve any thing at your hands ; and has forced me to 
be burdensome, before I could be useful to you. And yet, 
if I had no plea, but my undeserved misery — a once power- 
ful prince, the descendant of a race of illustrious monarchs, 
now, without any fault of my own, destitute of every sup- 
port, and reduced to the necessity of begging foreign assist- 
ance, against an enemy who has seized my throne and my 
kingdom — if my unequaled distresses were all I had to 
plead — it would become the greatness of the Roman com- 
monwealth, the arbitress of the world, to protect the injured, 
and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over help- 
less innocence. But, to provoke your vengeance to the 
utmost, Jugurtha has driven me from the very dominions 
which the senate and the people of Rome gave to my ances- 
tors ; and from which my grandfather, and my father, under 
your umbrage, expelled Syphax and the Carthagenians. 
Thus, Fathers, your kindness to our family is defeated ; and 
Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt on you. 

O wretched prince ! O cruel reverse of fortune ! O fa- 
ther Micipsa ! is this the consequence of your generosity ; 
that he whom your goodness raised to an equality with 
your own children, should be the murderer of your child- 
ren 1 Must then the royal house of Numidia always be a 
scene of havoc and blood 1 While Carthage remained, 
we suffered, as was to be expected, all sorts of hardships 
from their hostile attacks : our enemy near ; our only 
powerful ally, the Roman commonwealth, at a distance. 
While we were so circumstanced, we were always in arms 
and in action. When that scourge of Africa was no more, 
we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of established 



orator's own book. 59 

peace. But instead of peace, behold the kingdom of Nu- 
midia drenched with royal blood ! and the only surviving 
son of its late king, flying from an adopted murderer, and 
seeking that safety in foreign parts, which he cannot com- 
mand in his own kingdom. 

Whither— Oh ! whither shall I fly ? If I return to the 
royal palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is seized 
by the murderer of my brother. What can I there ex- 
pect, but that Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue, in my 
blood, those hands which are now reeking with my bro- 
ther's 1 If I were to fly for refuge, or assistance, to any 
other court, from what prince can I hope for protection, if 
the Roman commonwealth give me up? From my own fa- 
mily or friends I have no expectations. My royal father is 
no more. He is beyond the reach of violence, and out of 
hearing of the complaints of his unhappy son. Were my 
brother alive, our mutual sympathy would be some allevia- 
tion. But he is hurried out of life, in his early youth, by 
the very hand which should have been the last to injure 
any of the royal family of Numidia. The bloody Jugurtha 
has butchered all whom he suspected to be in my interest. 
Some have been destroyed by the lingering torment of the 
cross. Others have been given a prey to wild beasts, and 
their anguish made the sport of men more cruel than wild 
beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are shut up in 
dungeons, there to drag out a life more intolerable than 
death itself. 

Look down, illustrious senators of Rome ! from that 
height of power to which you are raised, on the unexam- 
pled distresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a 
wicked intruder, become an outcast from all mankind. 
Let not the crafty insinuations of him who returns murder 
for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to 
the wretch who has butchered the son and relations of a 
king, who gave him power to sit on the same throne with 
his own sons. I have been informed, that he labours by 
his emissaries, to prevent your determining any thing 
against him in his absence ; pretending that I magnify my 
distress, and might for him have staid in peace in my own 
kingdom. But if ever the time comes when the due ven- 
geance from above shall overtake him, he will then tremble 
as I do. Then he, who now, hardened in wickedness, 



60 orator's own book. 

triumphs over those whom his violence has laid low, will, 
in his turn, feel distress, and suffer for his impious ingrati- 
tude to my father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my 
brother. 

O murdered, butchered brother ! O dearest to my heart 
— now gone for ever from my sight ! — But why should I 
lament his death? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed 
light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very 
person who ought to have been the first to hazard his own 
life in defence of any one of Micipsa's family. But, as 
things are, my brother is not so much deprived of these 
comforts, as delivered from terror, from flight, from exile, 
and the endless train of miseries which render life to me 
a burden. He lies full low, gored with wounds, and fester- 
ing in his own blood. But he lies in peace. He feels 
none of the miseries which rend my soul with agony and 
distraction, while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind 
of the uncertainty of human affairs. So far from having 
it in my power to revenge his death, I am not master of 
the means of securing my own life. So far from being in 
a condition to defend my kingdom from the violence of the 
usurper, I am obliged to apply for foreign protection for 
my own person. 

Fathers ! Senators of Rome ! The arbiters of the world ! 
to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugur- 
tha. By your affection for your children, by your love for 
your country, by your own virtues, by the majesty of the 
Roman commonwealth, by all that is sacred, and all that 
is dear to you — deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, 
unprovoked injury ; and save the kingdom of Numidia, 
which is your own property, from being the prey of vio- 
lence, usurpation, and cruelty. 



THE CONDUCT OF GREAT BRITAIN TOWARDS AMERICA IN 
1774. 

Extract from Patrick Henry's Speech in Ihe Convention of the Delegates of Virgi- 
nia, March, 1775, upon a resolution lor organising the Militia. 

Mr, President, — I have but one lamp by which my feet 
are guided ; and that is the lamp of experience. I know 
of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, 



orator's own book. 61 

judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been 
in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten 
years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have 
been pleased to solace themselves and the house? Is it 
that insidious smile with which our petition has been 
lately received ? Trust it not, sir ; it will prove a snare to 
your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a 
kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our 
petition comports with those warlike preparations which 
cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and 
armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? 
Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, 
that force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us 
not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of 
war and subjugation— the last arguments to which kings 
resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial 
array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? 
Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? 
Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the world, 
to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies ? No, 
sir, she has none. They are meant for us ; they can be 
meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet 
upon us those chains, which the British ministry have 
been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to 
them ? Shall we try argument ? Sir, we have been trying 
that for the last ten years. Have we any thing new to 
offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the sub- 
ject up in every light of which it is capable ; but it has 
been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble 
supplication ? What terms shall we find which have not 
been already exhausted ? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, 
deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing 
that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming 
on. We have petitioned ; we have remonstrated ; we have 
supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the 
throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the 
tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our 
petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have pro- 
duced additional violence and insult ; our supplications 
have been disregarded ; and we have been spurned, with 
contempt, from the foot of the throne ! In vain, after these 
things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and recon- 
6 



62 

ciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we 
wish to be free — if we mean to preserve inviolate those 
inestimable privileges for which we have been so long 
contending— if we mean not basely to abandon the noble 
struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which 
we have pledged ourselves never to abandon, until the 
glorious object of our contest shall be obtained — we must 
fight ! I repeat it, sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms 
and to the God of hosts is all that is left us ! 



CALISTHENES* REPROOF OF CLEON's FLATTERY TO ALEXAN- 
DER, ON WHOM HE HAD PROPOSED TO CONFER DIVINITY, 
BY VOTE. Quintus Curtius. 

If the king were present, Cleon, there would be no 
need of my answering to what you have just proposed. 
He would himself reprove you, for endeavouring to draw 
him into an imitation of foreign absurdities, and for bring- 
ing envy upon him by such unmanly flattery. As he is 
absent, I take upon me to tell you, in his name, that no 
praise is lasting but what is rational ; and that you do 
what you can to lessen his glory, instead of adding to it. 
Heroes have never, among us, been deified, till after their 
death ; and, whatever may be your way of thinking, Cleon, 
for my part, I wish the king may not, for many years to 
come, obtain that honour. 

You have mentioned, as precedents of what you pro- 
pose, Hercules and Bacchus. Do you imagine, Cleon, 
that they were deified over a cup of wine? And are you 
and I qualified to make gods 1 Is the king, our sovereign, 
to receive his divinity from you and me, who are his sub- 
jects ? First try your power, whether you can make a 
king, it is surely easier to make a king than a god ; to 
give an earthly dominion, than a throne in heaven. I 
only wish that the gods may have heard, without offence, 
the arrogant proposal you have made, of adding one to 
their number, and that they may still be so propitious to 
us, as to grant the continuance of that success to our 
affairs, with which they have hitherto favoured us. For 
my part, I am not ashamed of my country, nor do I 
approve of our adopting the rites of foreign nations, or 



orator's own book. 63 

learning from them how we ought to reverence our kings. 
To receive laws or rules of conduct from them, what is it 
but to confess ourselves inferior to them? 






CASSIUS INSTIGATING BRITTUS TO JOIN THE CONSPIRACY 
AGAINST CJSSAR. Shakspeare. 

Honour is the subject of my story. 
I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you : 
We both have fed as well : and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
For once upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores, 
Caesar says to me, " Dar'st thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point T" — Upon the word, 
Accoutred as 1 was, I plunged in, 
And bade him follow ; so indeed he did. 
The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it 
With lusty sinews throwing it aside, 
And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 
But ere we could arrive at the point propos'd, 
Caesar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 
I, as JEneas, our great ancestor, , 
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber, 
Did I the tired Caesar ; and this man 
Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 
A wretched creature, and must bend his body 
If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 
He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
And when the fit was on him I did mark 
How he did shake ! 'Tis true ; this god did shake : 
His coward lips did from their colour fly; 
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 
Did lose its lustre ; I did hear him groan : 
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 



64 orator's own book. 

Mark him and write his speeches in their books, 

" Alas !" it cried — " Give me some drink, Titinius" — 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. 

Brutus and Caesar ! What should be in that Caesar? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 
Write them together ; yours is as fair a name : 
Sound them ; it doth become the mouth as well : 
Weigh them ; it is as heavy : conjure with 'em ; 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 
Now in the name of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meats doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he has grown so great ? Age thou art shamed ; 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was fam'd with more than with one man? 
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompassed but one man ? 
Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say, 
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd 
Th' infernal devil to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily as a king. 



THE EXORDIUM OF CURRAN S DEFENCE OF ROWAN. 

Extract from the Speech of Mr. Curran , in defence of Archibald Hamilton Rowan,* 
who was tried for the publication of a libel. 

Gentlemen of the Jury, — When I consider the period at 
which this prosecution is brought forward ; when I behold 
the extraordinary safeguard of armed soldiers resorted to,f 

* The trial of Mr. Rowan, in Ireland, in the year 1792, was one 
that produced general and intense excitement. He was a gentleman 
of a liberal education, of elegant accomplishments, of an ample for- 
tune, and moved in the first circles of society. He was charged with 
having written, published, and distributed, an inflammatory address 
to " the Society of United Irishmen," of which he was secretary, 
calling upon them to arm themselves in the cause of catholic eman- 
cipation. 

f A few minutes before Mr. Curran rose to speak, a guard of sol- 
diers was brought into the court-house by the sheriff. 



65 

no doubt for the preservation of peace and order ; when I 
catch, as I cannot but do, the throb of public anxiety 
which beats from one end to the other of this hall ; when 
I reflect on what may be the fate of a man of the most 
beloved personal character, of one of the most respectable 
families of our country, himself the only individual of that 
family, I may almost say of that country, who can look 
to that possible fate with unconcern : — Feeling, as I do, all 
these impressions, it is in the honest simplicity of my 
heart I speak, when I say, that I never rose in a court of 
justice with so much embarrassment as upon this occasion. 
If, gentlemen, I could entertain a hope of finding refuge 
for the disconcertion of my mind, in the perfect composure 
of yours ; if I could suppose that those awful vicissitudes 
of human events, which have been stated or alluded to, 
could leave your judgments undisturbed, and your hearts 
at ease, I know I should form a most erroneous opinion of 
your character. I entertain no such chimerical hopes ; I 
form no such unworthy opinions ; I expect not that your 
hearts can be more at ease than my own; I have no right 
to expect it; but I have a right to call upon you, in the 
name of your country, in the name of the living God, of 
whose eternal justice you are now administering that por- 
tion which dwells with us on this side of the grave, to dis- 
charge your breasts, as far as you are able, of every bias 
of prejudice or passion ; that if my client be guilty of the 
offence charged upon him, you may give tranquillity to the 
public by a firm verdict of conviction ; or, if he is inno- 
cent, by as firm a verdict of acquittal ; and that you will 
do this in defiance of the paltry artifices, and senseless 
clamours, that have been resorted to in order to bring 
him to his trial with anticipated conviction. And, gentle- 
men, I feel an additional necessity of thus conjuring you 
to be upon your guard, from the able and imposing state- 
ment which you have just heard on the part of the prose- 
cution. I know well the virtues and talents of the excellent 
person who conducts that prosecution; I know how much 
he would disdain to impose upon you by the trappings of 
office ; but I also know how easily we mistake the lodg- 
ment which character and eloquence can make upon our 
feelings, for those impressions that reason, and fact, and 
proof, only, ought to work upon our understandings. 
6* 



66 



CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. Phillips. 

Napoleon is fallen ! We may now pause before that 
splendid prodigy, which towered amongst us like some an- 
cient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnifi- 
cence attracted. 

Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a 
sceptred hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own ori- 
ginality. 

A mind bold, independent, and decisive — a will despotic 
in its dictates — an energy that distanced expedition, and a 
conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the 
outline of this extraordinary character — the most extraor- 
dinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this world, ever 
rose, or reigned, or fell. 

Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quick- 
ened every energy of a people who acknowledged no su- 
perior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and 
a scholar by charity ! 

With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his 
talents, he rushed into the lists where rank, and wealth, 
and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled 
from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no 
motive but interest — he acknowledged no criterion but 
success — he worshipped no God but ambition, and, with 
an eastern devotion, he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. 
Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not pro- 
fess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate ; in 
the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the crescent ; for the 
sake of a divorce, he bowed before the cross; the orphan 
of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic ; 
and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the 
throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of his des- 
potism. 

A professed catholic, he imprisoned the pope ; a pre- 
tended patriot, he impoverished the country ; and in the 
name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore 
without shame, the diadem of the Caesars ! 

Through this pantomime of his policy, fortune played 
the clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, 
beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories 
took the colour of his whim, and all that was venerable, 



orator's own book. 67 

and all that was novel, changed places with the rapidity 
of a drama. Even apparent defeat assumed the appear- 
ance of victory — his flight from Egypt confirmed his des- 
tiny — ruin itself only elevated him to empire. 

But if his fortune was great, his genius was transcend- 
ent ; decision flashed upon his councils ; and it was the 
same to decide and to perform. To inferior intellects, his 
combinations appeared perfectly impossible, his plans per- 
fectly impracticable; but in his hands, simplicity marked 
their development, and success vindicated their adoption. 

His person partook the character of his mind ; — if the 
one never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in 
the field. Nature had no obstacles that he did not sur- 
mount — space no opposition that he did not spurn; and 
whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or polar snows, 
he seemed proof against peril, and empowered with ubi- 
quity ! The whole continent of Europe trembled at behold- 
ing the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their 
execution. 

Scepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance ; 
romance assumed the air of history; nor was there aught 
too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, 
when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his 
imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the 
visions of antiquity became common-places in his contem- 
plation ; kings were his people — nations were his outposts ; 
and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and 
churches, and cabinets, as if they were the titular dignita- 
ries of the chess-board ! 

Amid all these changes he stood immutable as ada- 
mant. It mattered little, whether in the field or the 
drawing-room — with the mob or the levee — wearing the 
jacobin bonnet or the iron crown — banishing a Braganza, 
or espousing a Hapsburgh — dictating peace on a raft to 
the Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the gallows 
of Leipsic — he was still the same military despot ! 



68 orator's own book. 

duke of milan pleading his cause before charles v. 

Massinger. 

I come not, emperor, t' invade thy mercy, 
By fawning on thy fortune ; nor bring with me 
Excuses, or denials. 

I profess I was thine enemy, 
Thy deadly and vowed enemy ; one that wished 
Confusion to thy person and estates ; 
And with my utmost powers and deepest counsels, 
Had they been truly followed, furthered it : 
Nor will I now, although my neck were under 
The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable 
Confess, but that I honoured the French king 
More than thyself, and all men. 

Now, give me leave 
(My hate against thyself, and love to him 
Freely acknowledged) to give up the reasons, 
That made me so affected. In my wants 
I ever found him faithful : had supplies 
Of men and moneys from him : and my hopes, 
Quite sunk, were, by his grace, buoyed up again. 
He was, indeed, to me as my good angel, 
To guard me from all dangers. I dare speak 
(Nay must and will) his praise now, in as high 
And loud a key, as when he was thy equal. 
The benefits he sowed in me, met not 
Unthankful ground, but yielded him his own, 
With fair increase ; and I still glory in it ; 
And, though my fortunes (poor compared to his, 
And Milan, weighed with France, appear as nothing) 
Are in thy fury burnt ; let it be mentioned, 
They served but as small tapers, to attend 
The solemn flame at this great funeral ; 
And with them I will gladly waste myself, 
Rather than undergo the imputation 
Of being base or unthankful. 

If that, then, to be grateful 
For courtesies received, or not to leave 
A friend in his necessities, be a crime 
Amongst you Spaniards, Sforza brings his head 
To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave, 



orator's own book. 

Pinioned and fettered, in a squalid weed, 

Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling, 

For a forestalled remission : that were poor, 

And would but shame thy victory ; for conquest 

Over base foes, is a captivity, 

And not a triumph. I ne'er feared to die, 

More than I wished to live. When I had reached 

My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes, 

This crown upon my head, and to my side 

This sword was girt : and witness, truth, that now 

'T is in another's power, when I shall part 

With them and life together, I 'm the same : 

My veins did not then swell with pride ; nor now 

Shrink they with fear. — Know, sir, that Sforza stands 

Prepared for either fortune. 



EXTRACT FROM AN ORATION ON THE VIRTUES OF GENERAL 
JOUNCED THE 

1800. Amts. 

It is natural that the gratitude of mankind should be 
drawn to their benefactors. A number of these have suc- 
cessively arisen, who were no less distinguished for the 
elevation of their virtues, than the lustre of their talents. 
Of those, however, who were born, and who acted through 
life, as if they were born not for themselves, but for their 
country and the whole human race, how few are recorded 
in the long annals of ages, and how wide the intervals of 
time and space that divide them. In all this dreary length 
of way, they appear like five or six light-houses on as 
many thousand miles of coast ; they gleam upon the sur- 
rounding darkness with an inextinguishable splendour, like 
stars seen through a mist ; but they are seen like stars, to 
cheer, to guide, and to save. Washington is now added 
to that small number. Already he attracts curiosity, like 
a newly discovered star, whose benignant light will travel 
on to the world's and time's farthest bounds. Already his 
name is hung up by history as conspicuously as if it 
sparkled in one of the constellations of the sky. By com- 
memorating his death, we are called this day to yield the 
homage that is due to his virtue ; to confess the common 



70 orator's OWN BOOJ£. 

debt of mankind as well as our own ; and to pronounce for 
posterity, now dumb, that eulogium, which they will de- 
light to echo ten ages hence when we are dumb. The 
unambitious life of Washington, declining fame, yet courted 
by it, seemed, like his own Potomac, widening and deepen- 
ing his channel, as he approaches the sea, and displaying 
most the usefulness and serenity of his greatness towards 
the end of his course. Such a citizen would do honour to 
any country. The constant veneration and affection of his 
country will show that it was worthy of such a citizen. 
However his military fame may excite the wonder of man- 
kind, it is chiefly by his civil magistracy that his example 
will instruct them. Great generals have arisen in all ages 
of the world, and perhaps most in those of despotism and 
darkness. In times of violence and convulsion, they rise, 
by the force of the whirlwind, high enough to ride in it, 
and direct the storm. Like meteors, . they glare on the 
black clouds with a splendour, that, while it dazzles and ter- 
rifies, makes nothing visible but the darkness. The fame 
of heroes is indeed growing vulgar ! They multiply in 
every long war ! They stand in history, and thicken in 
their ranks, almost as undistinguished as their own sol- 
diers. 

But such a chief magistrate as Washington appears like 
the pole star in a clear sky, to direct the skilful statesman. 
His presidency will form an epoch, and be distinguished 
as the age of Washington. Already it assumes its high 
place in the political region. Like the milky way, it whi- 
tens along its allotted portion of the hemisphere. The lat- 
est generations of men, will survey, through the telescope 
of history, the space where so many virtues blend their 
rays, and delight to separate them into groups and distinct 
virtues. As the best illustration of them, the living monu- 
ment, to which the first of patriots would have chosen to 
consign his fame, it is my earnest prayer to Heaven, that 
our country may subsist, even to that late day, in the ple- 
nitude of its liberty and its happiness, and mingle its mild 
glory with Washington's. 



orator's own book. 71 



SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE AND CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE. Sheridan. 

Capt. A. Sir Anthony, I am delighted to see you here, 
and looking so well ! your sudden arrival at Bath made me 
apprehensive for your health. 

Sir A. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, 
you are recruiting here, hey ? 

Capt. A. Yes, sir, I am on duty. 

Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did 
not expect it ! for I was going to write to you on a little 
matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I 
grow old and infirm, and shall probably not be with you 
long. 

Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more 
strong and hearty ; and I pray fervently that you may con- 
tinue so. 

Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my 
heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I 
am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a 
long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of 
your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, 
is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. 

Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. 

Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my 
boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, 
therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. 

Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, 
I presume you would not wish me to quit the army ! 

Sir A. Oh ! that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Capt. A. My wife, sir ! 

Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you ; settle that be- 
tween you. 

Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say 1 

Sir A. Ay, a wife : why, did not I mention her be- 
fore? 

Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir. 

Sir A. Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is 
by a marriage ; the fortune is saddled with a wife : but I 
suppose that makes no difference ? 

Capt. A. Sir, sir ! you amaze me ! 



72 orator's own book. 

Sir A. What's the matter with the fool ? just now you 
were all gratitude and duty. 

Capt. A. I was, sir : you talked to me of independence 
and a fortune, but not one word of a wife. 

Sir A. Why, what difference does that make 1 Sir ! if 
you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock 
on it, as it stands. 

Capt. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady? 

Sir A. What's that to you, sir ? Come, give me your 
promise to love and to marry her directly. 

Capt. A. Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to sum- 
mon my affections for a lady whom I know nothing of ! 

Sir A. I am sure, 't is more unreasonable in you, to 
object to a lady you know nothing of. 

Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once 
for all, that in this point I cannot obey you. 

Sir A. Hark ye, Jack, I have heard you for some time 
with patience — I have been cool — quite cool : but take 
care ; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not 
thwarted : no one more easily led, when I have my own 
way ; but don't put me in a frenzy. 

Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it ; in this I cannot obey 
you. 

Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again 
while I live ! 

Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word, not a word ! not one 
word ! so give me your promise by a nod, and I'll tell you 
what Jack, — I mean, you dog — if you don't, by 

Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some 
mass of ugliness ; to 

Sir A. Zounds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as I 
choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she 
shall be as crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll 
like the bull's in Cox's museum ; she shall have a skin like 
a mummy, and the beard of a Jew — She shall be all this, 
sirrah ! yes, I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all 
night to write sonnets on her beauty. 

Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed ! 

Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy ! no grinning, 
jackanapes ! 



orator's own book. 73 

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour 
for mirth in my life. 

Sir A. 'Tis false, sir ; I know you are laughing in your 
sleeve ; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah ! 

Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 

Sir A. None of your passion, sir ! none of your vio- 
lence, if you please ; it won't do with me, I promise you. 

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I was never cooler in my life. 

Sir A. 'Tis a confounded lie ! I know you are in a 
passion in your heart ; I know you are a hypocritical, 
young dog ; but it wont do. 

Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word. 

Sir A. So you will fly out ! can't you be cool like me ? 
what good can passion do 1 passion is of no service, you 
impudent, insolent, over-bearing reprobate ! There, you 
sneer again ! don't provoke me ! But you rely upon the 
mildness of my temper, you do, you dog ! you play upon 
the meekness of my disposition ! Yet take care ; the pa- 
tience of a saint may be overcome at last ! But mark ! I 
give you six hours and a half to consider of this ; if you 
then agree, without any condition, to do every thing on 
earth that I choose, why, confound you ! I may in time 
forgive you. If not, don't enter the same hemisphere 
with me? don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the 
same light with me ; but get an atmosphere and a sun 
of your own : I'll strip you of your commission : I'll lodge 
a five and three pence in the hands of trustees, and you 
shall live on the interest. I'll disown you; I'll disinherit 
you ; and hang me, if ever I call you Jack again ! Exit. 

Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father, I kiss your 
hands. 



WILLIAM TELL IN THE FIELD OF GRUTLI. Knowles. 

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again ! 
I hold to you the hands you first beheld, 
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 
A spirit in your echoes answer me, 
And bid your tenant welcome to his home 
Again ! — O sacred forms, how proud you look ! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 
7 



74 

How huge you are ! how mighty and how free ! 

Ye are the things that tower, that shine — whose smile 

Makes glad — whose frown is terrible — whose forms, 

Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 

Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, 

I'm with you once again ! — I call to you 

With all my voice ! — I hold my hands to you, 

To show they still are free. I rush to you 

As though I could embrace you ! 

Scaling yonder peak, 
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow 
O'er the abyss : — his broad-expanded wings 
Lay calm and motionless upon the air, 
As if he floated there without their aid, 
By the sole act of his unlorded will, 
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively 
I bent my bow ; yet kept he rounding still 
His airy circle, as in the delight 
Of measuring the ample range beneath 
And round about, absorbed, he heeded not 
The death that threatened him. I could not shoot ! — 
'Twas liberty ! — I turned my bow aside, 
And let him soar away ! 



CLOSE OF MR. WEBSTER^ DEFENCE OF JUDGE PRESCOTT. 

Mr. President, — The case is closed. The fate of the 
respondent is in your hands. It is for you now to say, 
whether, from the law and the facts as they have appeared 
before you, you will proceed to disgrace and disfranchise 
him. If your duty calls on you to convict him, convict 
him, and let justice be done ! but I adjure you, let it be a 
clear, undoubted case. Let it be so for his sake ; for you 
are robbing him of that, for which, with all your high 
powers, you can yield him no compensation ; let it be so 
for your own sakes ; for the responsibility of this day's 
judgment is one, which you must carry with you through 
your lives. 

For myself, I am willing here to relinquish the charac- 
ter of an advocate, and to express opinions, by which I am 
willing to be bound as a citizen of the community. And I 



orator's own book. 75 

say upon my honour and conscience, that I see not how, 
with the^lawand constitution for your guides, you can pro- 
nounce the respondent guilty. I declare, that I have seen 
no case of wilful and corrupt official misconduct, set forth 
according to the requisition of the constitution, and proved 
according to the common rules of evidence. I see many 
things imprudent and ill-judged ; many things that I could 
wish had been otherwise ; but corruption and crime I do 
not see. 

Sir, the prejudices of the day will soon be forgotten ; the 
passions, if any there be, which have excited or favoured 
this prosecution, will subside ; but the consequence of the 
judgment, you are about to render, will outlive both them 
and you. The respondent is now brought, a single, unpro- 
tected individual, to this formidable bar of judgment, to 
stand against the power and authority of the State. I know 
you can crush him as he stands before you, and clothed, as 
you are, with the sovereignty of the State. You have the 
power, ' to change his countenance, and send him away.' 

Nor do I remind you that your judgment is to be rejudg- 
ed by the community ; and, as you have summoned him for 
trial to this high tribunal, you are soon to descend your- 
selves from the seat of justice, and stand before the higher 
tribunal of the world. I would not fail so much in respect 
to this honourable court, as to hint that it could pronounce 
a sentence which the community will reverse. No, sir, it 
is not the world's revision, which I would call on you to 
regard ; but that of your own consciences, when years have 
gone by, and you shall look back on the sentence you are 
about to render. If you send away the respondent, con- 
demned and sentenced from your bar, you are yet to meet 
him in the world, on which you cast him out. You will be 
called to behold him a disgrace to his family, a sorrow and 
a shame to his children, a living fountain of grief and agony 
to himself. 

If you shall then be able to behold him only as an unjust 
judge, whom vengeance has overtaken, and justice has 
blasted, you will be able to look upon him, not without pity, 
but yet without remorse. But if, on the other hand, you 
shall see, whenever and wherever you meet him, a victim 
of prejudice or of passion, a sacrifice to a transient excite- 
ment ; if you shall see in him, a man, for whose condemna- 



76 

tion any provision of the constitution has been violated, or 
any principle of law broken down ; then will he be able — 
humble and low as may be his condition — then will he be 
able, to turn the current of compassion backward, and to 
look with pity on those who have been his judges. If you 
are about to visit this respondent with a judgment which 
shall blast his house ; if the bosoms of the innocent and the 
amiable are to be made to bleed under your infliction, I 
beseech you, to be able to state clear and strong grounds 
for your proceedings. 

Prejudice and excitement are transitory, and will pass 
away. Political expediency, in matters of judicature, is a 
false and hollow principle, and will never satisfy the con- 
science of him, who is fearful that he may have given a 
hasty judgment. I earnestly entreat you, for your own 
sakes, to possess yourselves of solid reasons, founded in truth 
and justice, for the judgment you pronounce, which you can 
carry with you, till you go down into your graves ; reasons, 
which it will require no argument to revive, no sophistry, 
no excitement, no regard to popular favour, to render satis- 
factory to your consciences ; reasons which you can appeal 
to, in every crisis of your lives, and which shall be able to 
assure you, in your own great extremity, that you have not 
judged a fellow creature without mercy. 

Sir, I have done with the case of this individual, and 
now leave him in your hands. I hold up before him the 
broad shield of the constitution ; if through that he be 
pierced and fall, he will be but one sufferer, in a common 
catastrophe. 



SPEECH OF VINDEX AGAINST THE TYEANT NERO. Tacitus. 

We live not under laws and civil government, but under 
the will of a single tyrant. Vice and cruelty lord it over 
mankind. The provinces groan under the yoke of oppres- 
sion : our houses are pillaged ; and our relations basely 
murdered. Of all our misery Nero is the author. What 
crime so great that he has not dared to perpetrate? his 
mother died by his murderous hand. That horrible parri- 
cide makes the heart recoil. But Agrippina deserved her 
fate ; she brought a monster into the world. 



orator's own book. 77 

At length the measure of his guilt is full. The East is 
up in arms ; Britain in commotion ; and the legions in Spain 
and Germany are on the eve of a revolt : and shall the na- 
tion of Gaul stand lingering in suspense ? What considera- 
tion is there to restrain your ardour? Shall the title of 
Caesar, of Augustus, of Prince, and lmperator, throw a false 
lustre round a man, who has disgraced his rank, and made 
majesty ridiculous? These eyes, my friends, these eyes 
have seen him a fiddler, a mountebank, and a pantomime 
actor. Instead of his imperial titles, call him Thyestes, 
(Edipus, Alcmceon, and Orestes. These names are suited 
to his crimes. 

How long are we to submit to such a master ? Our fore- 
fathers took the city of Rome by storm, and what was their 
motive ? In those days the love of plunder was sufficient to 
provoke a war. We have a nobler cause : the cause of pub- 
lic liberty. It is that, my friends, it is that glorious cause, 
that now invites us. Let us obey the call, and draw the 
the avenging sword. The nations around us, fired with in- 
dignation, are ready to assert their rights. Let them not 
be the first to prove themselves men. The enterprise has 
in it all that is dear to man ; all that is great in human na- 
ture ; and shall we not be the first to seize the glorious oppor- 
tunity ? Let us go forth at once, and be the deliverers of 
the world. 



CHARACTER OF BLANNERHASSETT. Wirt. 

Let us now put the case between Burr and Blannerhas- 
sett. Let us compare the two men, and settle the question 
of precedence between them. Who then is Blannerhassett ? 
A native of Ireland, a man of letters, who fled from the 
storms of his own country, to find quiet in ours. Possess- 
ing himself of a beautiful island in the Ohio, he rears upon 
it a palace, and decorates it with every romantic embellish- 
ment of fancy. A shrubbery, that Shenstone might have 
envied, blooms around him. Music, that might have 
charmed Calypso and her nymphs, is his. An extensive 
library spreads its treasures before him. A philosophical 
apparatus offers to him all the secrets and mysteries of 
7* 



78 orator's own book. 

nature. Peace, tranquillity and innocence, shed their 
mingled delights around him. 

The evidence would convince you, that this is but a 
faint picture of the real life. In the midst of all this 
peace, this innocent simplicity, and this tranquillity, this 
feast of the mind, this pure banquet of the heart, the 
destroyer comes ; he comes to change this paradise into a 
hell. A stranger presents himself. Introduced to their 
civilities, by the high rank which he had lately held in 
his country, he soon finds his way to their hearts, by the 
dignity and elegance of his demeanour, the light and 
beauty of his conversation, and the seductive and fascinat- 
ing power of his address. 

The conquest was not difficult. Innocence is ever sim- 
ple and credulous. Conscious of no design itself, it sus- 
pects none in others. It wears no guard before its breast. 
Every door, and portal, and avenue of the heart, is thrown 
open, and all, who choose it, enter. Such was the state of 
Eden, when the serpent entered its bowers. The prisoner, 
in a more engaging form, winding himself into the open 
and unpractised heart of the unfortunate Blannerhassett, 
found but little difficulty in changing the native character 
of that heart, and the objects of its affection. By degrees 
he infuses into it the poison of his own ambition. He 
breathes into it the fire of his own courage ; a daring and 
desperate thirst for glory ; an ardour panting for great 
enterprises, for all the storm and bustle and hurricane of 
life. 

In a short time the whole man is changed, and every 
object of his former delight is relinquished. No more he 
enjoys the tranquil scene ; it has become flat and insipid to 
his taste. His books are abandoned. His retort and cru- 
cible are thrown aside. His shrubbery blooms and breathes 
its fragrance upon the air in vain ; he likes it not. His 
ear no longer drinks the rich melody of music ; it longs 
for the trumpet's clangour and the cannon's roar. Even 
the prattle of his babes, once so sweet, no longer affects 
him ; and the angel smile of his wife, which hitherto 
touched his bosom with ecstasy so unspeakable, is now 
unseen and unfelt. 

Greater objects have taken possession of his soul. His 
imagination has been dazzled by visions of diadems, of 



orator's own book. 79 

stars, and garters, and titles of nobility. He has been 
taught to burn, with restless emulation, at the names of 
great heroes and conquerors. His enchanted island is 
destined soon to relapse into a wilderness ; and, in a few 
months, we find the beautiful and tender partner of his 
bosom, whom he lately " permitted not the winds of sum- 
mer to visit too roughly," we find her shivering at mid- 
night, on the winter banks of the Ohio, and mingling her 
tears with the torrents that froze as they fell. 

Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from his interest 
and his happiness, thus seduced from the paths of inno- 
cence and peace, thus confounded in the toils that were 
deliberately spread before him, and overwhelmed by the 
mastering spirit and genius of another — this man, thus 
ruined and undone, and made to play a subordinate part 
in this grand drama of guilt and treason, this man is to be 
called the principal offender, while he, by whom he was 
thus plunged in misery, is comparatively innocent, a mere 
accessary ! 

Is this reason ? Is it law ? Is it humanity ? Sir, neither 
the human heart, nor the human understanding, will bear 
a perversion so monstrous and absurd ! so shocking to the 
soul ! so revolting to reason ! Let Aaron Burr, then, not 
shrink from the high destination which he has courted, 
and having already ruined Blannerhassett in fortune, cha- 
racter, and happiness, for ever, let him not attempt to 
finish the tragedy, by thrusting that ill-fated man between 
himself and punishment. 



ON THE POWER OF PUBLIC OPINION. Webster. 

We may hope, that the growing influence of enlighten- 
ed sentiments will promote the permanent peace of the 
world. Wars, to maintain family alliances, to uphold or 
to cast down dynasties, to regulate successions to thrones, 
which have occupied so much room in the history of mo- 
dern times, if not less likely to happen at all, will be less 
likely to become general and involve many nations, as the 
great principle shall be more and more established, that 
the interest of the world is peace, and its first great statute, 
that every nation possesses the power of establishing a go- 



80 orator's own book. 

vernment for itself. But public opinion has attained also 
an influence over governments, which do not admit the 
popular principle into their organisation. A necessary 
respect for the judgment of the world operates, in some 
measure, as a control over the most unlimited forms of 
authority. It is owing, perhaps, to this truth, that the in- 
teresting struggle of the Greeks has been suffered to go 
on so long, without a direct interference, either to wrest 
that country from its present masters, and add it to other 
powers, or to execute the system of pacification by force, 
and, with united strength, lay the neck of Christian and 
civilised Greece at the foot of the barbarian Turk. Let 
us thank God that we live in an age, when something has 
influence besides the bayonet, and when the sternest au- 
thority does not venture to encounter the scorching power 
of public reproach. Any attempt of the kind I have men- 
tioned, should be met by one universal burst of indignation; 
the air of the civilised world ought to be made too warm 
to be comfortably breathed by any who would hazard it. 

It is, indeed, a touching reflection, that while, in the ful- 
ness of our country's happiness, we rear this monument to 
her honour, we look for instruction, in our undertaking, to 
a country which is now in fearful contest, not for works of 
art or memorials of glory, but for her own existence. Let 
her be assured, that she is not forgotten in the world ; that 
her efforts are applauded, and that constant prayers as- 
cend for her success. And let us cherish a confident hope 
for her final triumph. If the true spark of religious and 
civil liberty be kindled, it will burn. Human agency can- 
not extinguish it. Like the earth's central fire it may be 
smothered for a time ; the ocean may overwhelm it ; 
mountains may press it down ; but its inherent and uncon- 
querable force will heave both the ocean and the land, and 
at some time or another, in some place or another, the 
volcano will break out and flame up to heaven. 

And now let us indulge an honest exultation in the con- 
viction of the benefit, which the example of our country 
has produced, and is likely to produce, on human freedom 
and human happiness. And let us endeavour to compre- 
hend, in all its magnitude, and to feel, in all its importance, 
the part assigned to us in the great drama of human affairs. 
We are placed at the head of the system of representative 



orator's own book. 81 

and popular governments. Thus far our example shows, 
that such governments are compatible, not only with re- 
spectability and power, but with repose, with peace, with 
security of personal rights, with good laws, and a just ad- 
ministration. 

Let the sacred obligations which have devolved on this 
generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts. Those 
are daily dropping from among us, who established our 
liberty and our government. The great trust now descends 
to new hands. Let us apply ourselves to that which is 
presented to us, as our appropriate object. We can win 
no laurels in a war for Independence. Earlier and worthier 
hands have gathered them all. Nor are there places for us 
by the side of Solon, and Alfred, and other founders of 
states. Our fathers have filled them. But there remains 
to us a great duty of defence and preservation ; and there is 
open to us also, a noble pursuit, to which the spirit of the 
times strongly invites us. Our proper business is improve- 
ment. Let our age be the age of improvement. In a day 
of peace, let us advance the arts of peace and the works of 
peace. Let us develope the resources of our land, call forth 
its powers, build up its institutions, promote all its great in- 
terests, and see whether we also, in our day and generation, 
may not perform something worthy to be remembered. Let 
us cultivate a true spirit of union and harmony. In pursuing 
the great object, which our condition points out to us, let us 
act under a settled conviction, and an habitual feeling, that 
these twenty-four states are one country. Let our concep- 
tions be enlarged to the circle of our duties. Let us extend 
our ideas over the whole of the vast field in which we are 
called to act. Let our object be, our country, our whole 

COUNTRY, AND NOTHING BUT OUR COUNTRY. And, by the 

blessing of God, may that country itself become a vast and 
splendid monument, not of oppression and terror, but of 
wisdom, of peace, and of liberty, upon which the world may 
gaze, with admiration, for ever ! 



82 orator's own book. 

VILLANY WORKING A NOBLE MIND TO JEALOUSY Shakespeare. 

Othello and lago. 

Iago. My noble lord, 

Oth. What dost thou say, Iago ? 

Iago, Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady, 
Know of your love 1 

Oth. He did from first to last : why dost thou ask 1 

lago. But for a satisfaction of my thought, 
No further harm. 

Oth. Why of thy thought, Iago ? 

Iago. I did not think he'd been acquainted with it. 

Oth. Oh, yes, and went between us very oft. 

Iago. Indeed ! 

Oth. Indeed 1 ay, indeed. Discern'st thou aught in that ! 
Is he not honest ? 

Iago. Honest, my lord ? 

Oth. Honest 1 ay, honest ? 

Iago. My lord, for aught I know. 

Oth. What dost thou think 1 

Iago. Think, my lord ! 

Oth. Think, my lord ! By Heaven, thou echo'st me ; 
As if there were some monster in thy thought, 
Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something ; 
I heard thee say but now, " thou lik'dst not that V — - 
When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like 1 
And when I told thee, he was of my counsel, 
In my whole course of wooing; thou cry'dst " indeed !" 
And didst contract and purse thy brow together, 
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain 
Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me, 
Show me thy thought. 

Iago. My lord, you know I love you. 

Oth. I think thou dost : 
And for I know thou art full of love and honesty, 
And weigh'st thy words before thou giv'st them breath, 
Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more : 
For such things, in a false disloyal knave, 
Are tricks of custom ; but in a man that's just, 
They're cold dilations working from the heart, 
That passion cannot rule. 



orator's own book. 83 

lago. For Michael Cassio, 
1 dare be sworn, I think that he is honest. 

Oth. I think so too. 

Iago. Men should be what they seem ; 
Or, those that be not, would they might seem knaves ! 

Oth. Certain ! men should be what they seem. 

Iago. Why, then I think Cassio's an honest man. 

Oth. Nay, yet there's more in this ; 
I pray thee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, 
As thou dost ruminate ; and give thy worst of thoughts 
The worst of words. 

Iago. Good, my lord, pardon me. 
Though I am bound to every act of duty, 
I am not bound to all that slaves are free to ; 
Utter my thoughts !— Why, say, they're vile and false ; 
As where's that palace, whereinto foul things 
Sometimes intrude not ? Who has a breast so pure, 
But some uncleanly apprehensions 
Keep leets and law-days, and in sessions sit 
With meditations lawful 1 

Oth. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, 
If thou but think'st him wrong'd, and mak'st his ear 
A stranger to thy thoughts. 

Iago. I do beseech you, 
Think I, perchance, am vicious in my guess, 
(As, I confess, it is my nature's plague 
To 'spy into abuse ; and oft my jealousy 
Shapes faults that are not) I entreat you then, 
From one that so imperfectly conjects, 
Your wisdom would not build yourself a trouble 
Out of my scattering and unsure observance : 
It were not for your quiet, nor your good, 
Nor for my manhood, honesty, and wisdom, 
To let you know my thoughts. 
Oth. What dost thou mean ? 

Iago. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls. 

Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing ; 
'Twas mine, 'tis his ; and has been slave to thousands : 
But he, that filches from me my good name, 
Robs me of that, which not enriches him, 
And makes me poor indeed. 



84 orator's own book. 



Oth. I'll know thy thoughts- 



Iago. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand ; 
Nor shall not, while 'tis in my custody. 

Oth. Ha! 

Iago. Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy ; 
It is a green-eyed monster, which doth mock 
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss, 
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ; 
But oh, what damned minutes tells he o'er, 
Who doats, yet doubts ; suspects, yet strongly loves. 

Oth. O misery ! 

Iago. Poor and content, is rich and rich enough ; 
But riches endless, is as poor as winter, 
To him that ever fears he shall be poor. 
Good heaven! the souls of all my tribe defend 
From jealousy. 

Oth. Why, why is this 1 
Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy ? 
To follow still the changes of the moon 
With fresh suspicions ? — 'Tis not to make me jealous, 
To say, my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, 
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well : 
Where virtue is, these make more virtuous, 
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw 
The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt, 
For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago, 
I'll see before I doubt ; when I doubt prove ; 
And, on the proof, there is no more but this, 
Away at once with love or jealousy. 

Iago. I'm glad of this ; for now I shall have reason 
To show the love and duty that I bear you 
With franker spirit. Therefore, as I'm bound, 
Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. 
Look to your wife, observe her well with Cassio : 
Wear your eye thus ; not jealous, nor secure ; 
I would not have your free and noble nature 
Out of self-bounty be abus'd ; look- to't. 
I know our country-disposition well ; 
In Venice they do let Heav'n see the pranks, 
They dare not show their husbands. 
Oth. Dost thou say so 1 
Iago. She did deceive her father, marrying you ; 



orator's own book. 85 

And when she seem'd to shake, and fear your looks, 
She lov'd them most. 

Oth. And so she did. 

lago. Go to then ; 
She, that, so young, could give out such a seeming 
To seal her father's eyes up, close as oak- 
He thought 'twas witchcraft — but I'm much to blame ; 
I humbly do beseech you of your pardon, 
For too much loving you. 

Oth. I am bound to you for ever. 

lago* I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits. 

Oth. Not a jot, not a jot. 

lago. Trust me, I fear it has : 
1 hope you will consider what is spoke 
Comes from my love. But I do see you're moved — 
I am to pray you, not to strain my speech 
To grosser issues, nor to larger reach, 
Than to suspicion* 

Oth. I will not. 

lago. Should you do so, my lord, 
My speech would fall into such vile success, 
Which my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend, 
My lord, I see you're mov'd 

Oth. No, not much mov'd — 

I do not think but Desdemona's honest. 

lago. Long live she so ! and long live you to think so ! 

Oth. And yet, how nature erring from itself 

lago. Ay, there's the point ; — as (to be bold with you) 
Not to affect many proposed matches 
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, 
Whereto we see in all things nature tends : 
Foh ! one may smell, in such, a will most rank, 
Foul disproportions, thoughts unnatural. 
But, pardon me, I do not in position 
Distinctly speak of her ; though I may fear, 
Her will, recoiling to her better judgment, 
May fall to match you with her country forms, 
And, haply, so repent. 

Oth. Farewell, farewell ; 
If more thou dost perceive, let me know more : 
Set on thy wife t'observe. Leave me, lago. 

lago. My lord, I take my leave. [Going. 

8 



86 ORATOll's OWN BOOK. 

Oth. Why did I marry l — 
This honest creature, doubtless, 
Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. 

Iago. My lord, I would I might entreat your honour 
To scan this thing no further ! leave it to time : 
Although 'tis fit that Cassio have his place, 
For, sure, he fills it up with great ability ; 
Yet if you please to hold him off a while, 
You shall by that perceive him, and his means ; 
Note, if your lady strain his entertainment 
With any strong or vehement importunity ; 
Much will be seen in that. In the mean time, 
Let me be thought too busy in my fears, 
(As worthy cause I have to fear I am,) 
And hold her free, I do beseech your honour. 

Oth. Fear not my government. 

Iago. I once more take my leave. 



ADVICE TO THE YOUNG. Charming. 

Young man, remember that the only test of goodness, 
virtue, is moral strength, self-denying energy. You have 
generous and honourable feelings, you scorn mean actions, 
your heart beats quick at the sight or hearing of courage- 
ous, disinterested deeds, and all these are interesting quali- 
ties ; but, remember, they are the gifts of nature, the en- 
dowments of your susceptible age. They are not virtue. 

God and the inward monitor ask for more. The ques- 
tion is, do you strive to confirm, into permanent principles, 
the generous sensibilities of the heart ? Are you watchful 
to suppress the impetuous emotions, the resentments, the 
selfish passionateness, which are warring against your hon- 
ourable feelings ? Especially do you subject to your moral 
and religious convictions, the love of pleasure, the appetites, 
the passions, which form the great trials of youthful virtue? 

Here is the field of conflict to which youth is summoned. 
Trust not to occasional impulses of benevolence, to consti- 
tutional courage, frankness, kindness, if you surrender 
yourselves basely to the temptations of your age. No man 
who has made any observation of life, but will tell you how 
often he has seen the promise of youth blasted ; intellect, 



orator's own book. 87 

genius, honourable feeling, kind affection, overpowered and 
almost extinguished, through the want of moral strength, 
through a tame yielding to pleasure and the passions. 
Place no trust in your good propensities, unless these are 
fortified, and upheld, and improved, by moral energy and 
self-control. 

To all of us, in truth, the same lesson comes. If any 
man will be Christ's disciple, sincerely good, and worthy to 
be named among the friends of virtue, if he will have inward 
peace and the consciousness of progress towards Heaven, he 
must deny himself, he must take the cross, and follow in the 
renunciation of every gain and pleasure inconsistent with 
the will of God. 



THE CORAL INSECT. Mrs. Sigourney. 

Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, 

Who build on the tossing and treacherous main ; 

Toil on, for the wisdom of man ye mock, 

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock, 

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 

And your arches spring up through the crested wave : 

Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone, 
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring 
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king, 
The turf looks green where the breakers rolled, 
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold, 
The sea-snatched isle is the home of men, 
And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
There are snares enough on the tented field, 
'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield, 
There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are up, 
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup, 
There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath, 
And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 



88 orator's own book. 

With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright, 
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, 
And the gods of ocean have frowned to see 
The mariner's bed 'mid their halls of glee ; 
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread 
The boundless sea with the thronging dead ? 

Ye build ! ye build ! but ye enter not in ; 

Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin, 

From the land of promise, ye fade and die, 

Ere its verdure gleams forth on your wearied eye. 

As the cloud-crowned pyramids' founders sleep 

Noteless and lost in oblivion deep, 

Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, 

While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 



TRIULI AND JAFFIER. Otway. 

PH. No more ! I'll hear no more ! Begone, and leave 
me. 

Jaff. Not hear me ! By my sufferings, but you shall ! 
My lord, my lord ! I'm not that abject wretch 
You think me. Patience ! where's the distance throws 
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak 
In right, though proud oppression will not hear me? 

PH. Have you not wrong'd me ? 

Jaff. Could my nature e'er 
Have brook'd injustice or the doing wrong, 
I need not now thus low have bent myself, 
To gain a hearing from a cruel father. 
Wrong'd you 1 

PH. Yes, wrong'd me. In the nicest point, 
The honour of my house, you've done me wrong. 
When you first came home from travel, 
With such hopes as made you look'd on 
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation, 
Pleas'd with your seeming virtue, I received you ; 
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits \ 
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too, 



orator's own book. 89 

My very self was yours : you might have us'd me 
To your best service ; like an open friend 
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine; 
When, in requital of my best endeavours, 
You treacherously practis'd to undo me ; 
Seduc'd the weakness of my age's darling, 
My only child, and stole her from my bosom. 

Jaff. 'Tis to me you owe her ; 
Childless you had been else, and in the grave 
Your name extinct ; no more Priuli heard of. 
You may remember, scarce five years are past, 
Since in your brigantine you sail'd to see 
The Adriatic wedded by our duke ; 
And I was with you. Your unskilful pilot 
Dash'd us upon a rock ; when to your boat 
You made for safety ; entered first yourself: 
Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next, 
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side, 
Was by a wave wash'd off into the deep ; 
When instantly I plunged into the sea, 
And buffeting the billows to her rescue, 
Redeem'd her life with half the loss of mine. 
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her, 
And, with the other, dash'd the saucy waves, 
That throng'd and press'd to rob me of my prize. 
I brought her ; gave her to your despairing arms : 
Indeed, you thank'd me ; but a nobler gratitude 
Rose in her soul ; for, from that hour, she lov'd me, 
Till, for her life, she paid me with herself. 

Pri. You stole her from me ; like a thief, you stole her 
At dead of night ; that cursed hour you chose 
To rifle me of all my heart held dear. 
May all your joys in her prove false as mine ; 
A sterile fortune and a barren bed 
Attend you both ; continual discord make 
Your days and nights bitter and grievous still ; 
May the hard hand of a vexatious need 
Oppress and grind you ; till at last you find 
The curse of disobedience all your portion. 

Jaff. Half of your curse you have bestow'd in vain : 
Heaven has already crown'd our faithful loves 
With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty. 



90 orator's own book. 

May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire, 
And happier than his father. 

Pri. No more. 

Jaff. Yes, all ; and then adieu for ever. 

There's not a wretch, that lives on common charity, 

But 's happier than I : for I have known 

The luscious sweets of plenty ; every night 

Have slept with soft content about my head, 

And never wak'd but to a joyful morning ; 

Yet now must fall ; like a full ear of corn, 

Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet wither'd in the ripening. 

Pri. Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; 
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall, 
Those pageants of thy folly ; 
Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife 
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state : 
Then to some suburb cottage both retire : 
Drudge to feed loathsome life : get brats and starve. 
Home, home, I say ! = [Exit, 

Jaff. Yes, if my heart would let me — 
This proud, this swelling heart ; home would I go, 
But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, 
Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors. 
I 've now not fifty ducats in the world ; 
Yet still I am in love, and pleas'd with ruin. 
O Belvidera ! Oh, she is my wife ! — 
And we will bear our wayward fate together — 
But ne'er know comfort more. — Venice Preserved. 



PARTING OF DOUGLAS AND MARMION. Scott 

Not far advanced was morning day, 
When Marmion did his troops array, 

To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
He had safe-conduct for his band, 
Beneath the royal seal and hand, 

And Douglas gave a guide : 
The ancient earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
And whispered, in an under tone, 
" Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 



orator's own book. 91 

The train from out the castle drew ; 
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu : — 

" Though something I might plain," he said, 

" Of cold respect to stranger guest, 

Sent hither by your king's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I staid, 

Part we in friendship from your land, 

And, noble earl, receive my hand." — 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — ■ 

" My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 

Be open at my sovereign's- will, 

To each one whom he lists, howe'er 

Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 

My castles are my king's alone, 

From turret to foundation stone, — 

The hand of Douglas is his own, 

And never shall, in friendly grasp 

The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame with ire, 

And — " This to me !" he said, — 

" An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, 
He, who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ; 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hands upon your sword,) 

I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! 
And if thou said'st, I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hadst lied !" 
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age ; 



92 orator's own book. 

Fierce he broke forth : " And dar'st thou, then, 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go 1 — 
No, by Saint Bryde of Bothwell, no ! — 
Up drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, ho ! 

Let the portcullis fall." — 
Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, — 
And dashed the rowels in his steed, 
Like arrow through the arch-way sprung, 
The ponderous grate behind him rung : 
To pass there was such scanty room, 
The bars, descending, razed his plume. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies, 

Just as it trembled on the rise ; 

Not lighter does the swallow skim 

Along the smooth lake's level brim. 

And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 

He halts and turns with clenched hand, 

And shout of loud defiance pours, 

And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

" Horse ! horse !" the Douglas cried, " and chase F 

But soon he reined his fury's pace ; 

" A royal messenger he came, 

Though most unworthy of the name. — 

Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 

Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 

I thought to slay him where he stood. — 

'Tis pity of him, too," he cried ; 

" Bold can he speak, and fairly ride : 

I warrant him a warrior tried." — 

With this his mandate he recalls, 

And slowly seeks his castle halls. 



CHRISTIANITY THE FOUNDATION OF THE LAW. 

Extract from Mr. Erskine's Speech on the trial of Williams, for the publication of 
Paine's Age of Reason. 

Gentlemen of the Jury,— How any man can rationally 
vindicate the publication of such a book as " Paine's Age of 
Reason," in a country where the Christian religion is the 



ORATOR'S OWN BOOK. 93 

very foundation of the law of the land, I am totally at a loss 
to conceive, and have no wish to discuss. How is a tribu- 
nal, whose whole jurisdiction is founded upon the solemn 
belief and practice of what is denied as falsehood, aud repro- 
bated as impiety, to deal with such an anomalous defence 1 
Upon what principle is it even offered to the court, whose 
authority is contemned and mocked at? If the religion, 
proposed to be called in question, be not previously adopted 
in belief, and solemnly acted upon, what authority has the 
court to pass any judgment at all of acquittal or condemna- 
tion 1 Why am I now, or upon any other occasion, to sub- 
mit to your lordship's authority 1 Why am I now, or at 
any time, to address twelve of my equals, as I am now 
addressing you, with reverence and submission ? Under 
what sanction are the witnesses to give their evidence, 
without which there can be no trial ? Under what obliga- 
tions can I call upon you, the jury, representing your coun- 
try, to administer justice ? Surely upon no other, than 
that you are sworn to administer it under the oaths you 
have taken. The whole judicial fabric, from the king's 
sovereign authority, to the lowest office of magistracy, has 
no other foundation. The whole is built, both in form and 
substance, upon the same oath of every one of its ministers, 
to do justice, as god shall help them hereafter. What 
God ? and what hereafter 1 That God, undoubtedly, who 
has commanded kings to rule, and judges to decree, with 
justice ; who has said to witnesses, not by the voice of nature, 
but in revealed commandments, "thou shalt not bear 

FALSE TESTIMONY AGAINST THY NEIGHBOUR." and who has 

enforced obedience to them by the revelation of the unutter- 
able blessings which shall attend their observances; and 
the awful punishment which shall await upon their trans- 
gressions. 



CHRISTIANITY THE FAITH OF THE MOST GIFTED MINDS. 

Extracted from the same speech. 

Gentlemen of the Jury, — It seems, from the publication 
of this infidel book, that this is an age of reason, and that 
the time and the person are at last arrived that are to dissi- 



94 orator's own book. 

pate the errors which have overspread the past generations 
of ignorance ! The believers in Christianity are many, but 
it belongs to the few, who are wise, to correct their credu- 
lity ! Belief is an act of reason, and superior reason may 
therefore dictate to the weak. In running the mind along 
the numerous list of sincere and devout Christians, I cannot 
help lamenting that Newton had not lived to this day, to 
have had his shallowness filled up with this new flood of 
light. But the subject is too awful for irony. I will speak 
plainly and directly. Newton was a Christian ! Newton, 
whose mind burst forth from the fetters cast by nature upon 
our finite conceptions ; — Newton, whose science was truth, 
and the foundation of whose knowledge was philosophy ; not 
those visionary and arrogant assumptions which too often 
usurp its name, but philosophy, resting upon the basis of 
mathematics, which, like figures, cannot lie ; — Newton, who 
carried the line and rule to the utmost barriers of creation, 
and explored the principles, by which, no doubt, all created 
matter is held together and exists. 

But this extraordinary man, in the mighty reach of his 
mind, overlooked, perhaps, the errors which minuter inves- 
tigation of the created things on this earth might have taught 
him, of the essence of his Creator. What shall then be 
said of the great Mr. Boyle, who looked into the organic 
structure of all matter, even to the brute inanimate substance 
which the foot treads on ? Such a man may be supposed to 
have been equally qualified with Mr. Paine, " to look through 
nature up to nature's God." Yet the result of all his con- 
templation was the most confirmed and devout belief in all 
which the other holds in contempt as despicable and drivel- 
ing superstition. 

But these men were only deep thinkers, and lived in their 
closets, unaccustomed to the traffic of the world, and to the 
laws which practically regulate mankind. Gentlemen, in 
the place where you now sit to administer the justice of this 
great country, above a century ago the never to be forgot- 
ten Sir Matthew Hale presided, whose faith in Christianity 
is an exalted commentary upon its truth and reason, and 
whose life was a glorious example of its fruits in man ; ad- 
ministering human justice with a wisdom and purity drawn 
from the pure fountain of the Christian dispensation, which 



95 

has been and will be in all ages, a subject of the highest 
reverence and admiration. 

But it is said, by Mr. Paine, that the Christian fable is 
but the tale of the more ancient superstitions of the world, 
and may easily be detected by a proper understanding of 
the mythologies of the heathens. Did Milton understand 
those mythologies ? Was he less versed than Mr. Paine 
in the superstitions of the world 1 No : they were the sub- 
ject of his immortal song ; and though shut out from all 
recurrence to them, he poured them forth from the stores 
of a memory, rich with all that man ever knew, and laid 
them in their order, as the illustration of that real and ex- 
alted faith, the unquestionable source of that fervid genius, 
which cast a sort of shade upon all the other works of man. 

Thus, gentlemen, you find all that is great, or wise, or 
splendid, or illustrious, amongst created beings; — all the 
minds gifted beyond ordinary nature, though divided by dis- 
tant ages, and by clashing opinions, yet joining, as it were, 
in one sublime chorus, to celebrate the truths of Christian- 
ity, and laying upon its holy altars the never-fading offer- 
ings of their immortal wisdom. 



SUPPOSED SPEECH OP AN OPPONENT OF THE DECLARATION OF 
INDEPENDENCE. Webster. 

Let us pause ! This step once taken cannot be retrac- 
ed. This resolution, once passed, will cut off all hope of 
reconciliation. If success attend the arms of England, we 
shall then be no longer colonies, with charters, and with 
privileges ; these will all be forfeited by this act ; and we 
shall be in the condition of other conquered people— at the 
mercy of the conquerors. For ourselves, we may be ready 
to run the hazard ; but are we ready to carry the country 
to that length? Is success so probable as to justify it ? 
Where is the military, where the naval power, by which we 
are to resist* the whole strength of the arm of England ? — 
for she will exert that strength to the utmost. Can we rely 
on the constancy and perseverance of the people ? or will 
they not act, as the people of other countries have acted, 
and, wearied with a long war, submit, in the end, to a worse 
oppression 1 While we stand on our old ground, and insist 



96 orator's own book. 

on redress of grievance, we know we are right, and are not 
answerable for consequences. Nothing, then, can be im- 
putable to us. But, if we now change our object, carry our 
pretensions farther, and set up for absolute independence, we 
shall lose the sympathy of mankind. We shall no longer 
be defending what we possess, but struggling for something 
which we never did possess, and which we have solemnly 
and uniformly disclaimed all intention of pursuing, from the 
very outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus our old 
ground, of resistance only to arbitrary acts of oppression, 
the nations will believe the whole to have been mere pre- 
tence, and they will look on us, not as injured, but as am- 
bitious subjects. I shudder before this responsibility. It 
will be on us, if, relinquishing the ground we have stood on 
so long, and stood on so safely, we now proclaim indepen- 
dence, and carry on the war for that object, while these 
cities burn, these pleasant fields whiten and bleach with the 
bones of their owners, and these streams run blood. Jt will 
be upon us, it will be upon us, if failing to maintain this un- 
seasonable and ill-judged declaration, a sterner despotism, 
maintained by military power, shall be established over our 
posterity, when we ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a 
harassed, a misled people, shall have expiated our rashness, 
and atoned for our presumption, on the scaffold. 



SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS IN FAVOUR OF THE DECLA- 
RATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Webster. 

Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my 
hand, and my heart, to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in 
the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But there's 
a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of Eng- 
land has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own inte- 
rest, for our good she has obstinately persisted, till indepen- 
dence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth 
to it, and it is ours. 

Why then should we defer the declaration ? Is any man 
so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, 
which shall leave either safety to the country and its liber- 
ties, or safet}" to his own life, and his own honour ? Are not 
you, sir, who sit in that chair, — is not he, our venerable 



orator's own book. 97 

colleague, near you — are you not both already the proscribed 
and predestined objects of punishment and vengeance 1 Cut 
off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can 
you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws ? 

If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or 
to give up, the war 1 Do we mean to submit to the mea- 
sures of parliament, Boston port-bill, and all 1 Do we mean 
to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to 
powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the 
dust 1 I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall 
submit. 

Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever 
entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sa- 
cred honour to Washington, when putting him forth to incur 
the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the 
times, we promised to adhere to him in every extremity, 
with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there is not a man 
here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep 
over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle 
of that plighted faith fall to the ground. 

For myself, having twelve months ago, in this place, 
moved you, that George Washington be appointed com- 
mander of the forces, raised, or to be raised, for the defence 
of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, 
and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate 
or waver, in the support I give him. The war, then, must 
go on. We must fight it through. And, if the war must 
go on, why put off longer the declaration of independence? 
That measure will strengthen us : it will give us character 
abroad. 

The nations will then treat with us, which they never can 
do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects, in arms against 
our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself, will 
sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of indepen- 
dence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge, 
that her whole conduct towards us has been a course of in- 
justice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded, 
by submitting to that course of things which now predesti- 
nates our independence, than by yielding the points in con- 
troversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would 
regard as the result of fortune ; the latter she would feel as 
her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we 
9 



98 orator's own book. 

not, as soon as possible, change this from a civil to a na- 
tional war 1 And since we must fight it through, why not 
put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, 
if we gain the victory ? 

If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not 
fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will create 
navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will 
carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this 
struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been 
found. I know the people of these colonies, and I know, 
that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in 
their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, in- 
deed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take 
the lead. Sir, the declaration will inspire the people with 
increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for 
restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for char- 
tered immunities held under a British king, set before them 
the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe 
into them anew the breath of life. 

Read this declaration at the head of the army; every 
sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow 
uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honour. 
Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it, and the 
love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand 
with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls ; proclaim 
it there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the 
enemy's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their brothers 
and their sons fall on the field of Bunkerhill, and in the 
streets of Lexington and Concord — and the very walls will 
cry out in its support. 

Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs ; but I see, I 
see clearly, through this day's business. You and I, indeed, 
may rue it. We may not live to the time, when this decla- 
ration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colonists ; 
die, slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the scaf- 
fold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven, 
that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, 
the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, 
come when that hour may. But, while 1 do live, let me 
have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a 
free country. 

But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, 



orator's own book. 99 

that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and 
it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- 
pensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, 
I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven. We 
shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are 
in our graves, our children will honour it. They will cele- 
brate it, with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and 
illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, 
copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of 
agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of 

joy- 
Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judg- 
ment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. 
All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this 
life, I am now ready here to stake upon it ; and I leave off, 
as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the 
declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing 
of God, it shall be my dying sentiment— independence notv ; 

and INDEPENDENCE FOR EVER. 



A COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR-SELLER. Wolcott. 

A fellow in a market town, 

Most musical, cried razors up and down, 

And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence ; 
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, 
And for the money quite a heap, 

As every man would buy with cash and sense. 

A country bumpkin the great offer heard, — 
Poor Hodge, who surTer'd by a broad black beard, 

That seem'd a shoe -brush stuck beneath his nose : 
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid ; 
And proudly to himself in whispers said, 

" This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. 

" No matter, if the fellow be a knave : 
Provided that the razors shave, 

It certainly will be a monstrous prize." 
So home the clown with his good fortune went, 
Smiling, in heart and soul content, 

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes. 



100 

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, 
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, 

Just like a hedger cutting furze ; 
'Twas a vile razor ! then the rest he tried — 
All were impostors — " Ah !" Hodge sigh'd, 

" I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." 

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, 

He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and swore ; 

Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces. 
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er. 

His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff, 
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff: 

So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds. 
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, 
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws, 

On the vile cheat that sold the goods. 
" Razors ! — a damn'd confounded dog ! — 
Not fit to scrape a hog !" 

Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and begun— 
" Perhaps, Master Razor Rogue, to you 'tis fun, 

That people flay themselves out of their lives : 
You rascal ! for an hour I have been grubbing, 
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, 

With razors just like oyster knives. 
Sirrah ! I tell you you're a knave, 
To cry up razors that can't shave.™ 

" Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I'm not a knave : 

As for the razors you have bought, 

Upon my soul I never thought 
That they would shave." 

" Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring 

eyes, 
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; 
" What were they made for, then, you dog ?" he cries : 
" Made !" quoth the fellow with a smile — " to sell.''' 



orator's own book. 101 

kings should learn in adversity how to act in pros- 
PERITY. Mallet. 

Alfred and Hermit. 

Alf. Thrice happy hermit ! 
Whom thus the heavenly 'habitants attend, 
Blessing thy calm retreat ■; while ruthless war 
Fills the polluted land with blood and crimes, 
In this extremity of England's fate, 
Led by thy sacred character, I come 
For comfort and advice. Say what remains, 
What yet remains to save our prostrate country ? 
Nor scorn this anxious question even from me, 
A nameless stranger. 

Her. Alfred, England's king, 
All hail ! 

Alf. Amazement ! In this russet, hid, 
I deem'd my state beyond discovery's reach : 
How is it then to thee alone reveal'd 1 

Her. Last night, when with a draught from that cool 

fountain 

I had my wholesome sober supper crown'd ; 

As is my stated custom, forth I walk'd 

Beneath the solemn gloom and glittering sky, 

To feed my soul with prayer and meditation : 

And thus to inward harmony compos'd 

That sweetest music of the grateful heart, 

Whose each emotion is a silent hymn, 

I to my couch retired. Straight on mine eyes 

A pleasing slumber fell, whose mystic power 

Seal'd up my senses, but enlarg'd my soul. 

Led by those spirits, who disclose futurity, 

I liv'd through distant ages; felt the virtue, 

The great the glorious passions that will fire 

Remote posterity, when guardian laws 

Are by the patriot, in the glowing senate, 

Won from corruption ; when th' impatient arm 

Of liberty, invincible, shall scourge 

The tyrants of mankind — and when the deep, 

Through all her swelling waves, from pole to pole 

Shall spread the boundless empire of thy sons. 
9 # 



102 orator's own book. 

I saw thee, Alfred, too — But o'er thy fortunes 
Lay clouds impenetrable. 

Alf. To heaven's will, 
In either fortune, mine shall ever bend 
"With humblest resignation — Yet, O say, 
Does that unerring Providence, whose justice 
Has bow'd me to the dust ; whose ministers, 
Sword, fire, and famine, scourge this sinful land, 
This tomb of its inhabitants — does He 
Reserve me in his hand, the glorious instrument 
From fell oppression to redeem my country ? 

Her. What mortal eye, by his immediate beam 
Not yet enlighten'd, dare presume to look 
Through time's abyss 1 But should the flatterer, Hope, 
Anticipating see that happy time, 
Those whiter moments — Prince, remember, then, 
The noble lessons by affliction taught : 
Preserve the quick humanity it gives, 
The pitying social sense of human weakness ; 
Yet keep thy generous fortitude entire. 
The manly heart, that to another's wo 
Is tender, as superior to its own. 
Learn to submit : yet learn to conquer fortune. 
Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life : to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. 
Chief, let devotion to the sovereign mind, 
A steady, cheerful, absolute dependence. 
On his best, wisest government, possess thee. 

Alf. I thank thee, father : and O witness, heav'n, 
Whose eye the heart's profoundest depth explores ! 
That if not to perform my regal task ; 
To be the common father of my people, 
Patron of honour, virtue, and religion ; 
If not to shelter useful worth, to guard 
His well-earned portion from the sons of rapine, 
And deal out justice with impartial hand ; 
If not to spread, on all good men, thy bounty, 
The treasures trusted to me, not my own ; 
If not to raise anew our English name, 
By peaceful arts, that grace the land they bless, 
And generous war to humble proud oppressors ; 



orator's own book. 103 

Yet more ; if not to build the public weal, 
On that firm base which can alone resist 
Both time and chance, on liberty and laws ; 
If not for these important ends ordain'd, 
May I ne'er poorly fill the throne of England ! 

Her. Still may thy breast these sentiments retain, 
In prosperous life. 

Alf. Could it destroy or change 
Such thoughts as these, prosperity were ruin. 
When those whom heaven distinguishes o'er millions, 
And showers profusely power and splendour on them, 
Whate'er th' expanded heart can wish ; when they, 
Accepting the reward, neglect the duty, 
Or worse, pervert those gifts to deeds of ruin, 
Is there is a wretch they rule so base, as they 1 
Guilty, at once, of sacrilege to heaven ! 
And of perfidious robbery to man ! 

Her. Such thoughts become a monarch — but behold, 
The glimmering dusk, involving air and sky, 
Creeps slow and solemn on. Devotion now, 
With eye enraptur'd, as the kindling stars 
Light, one by one, all heaven into a glow 
Of living fire, adores the hand divine, 
Who form'd their orbs, and pour'd forth glory on them. 

Alf. Then, this good moment, snatch'd from earth's affairs 
In yonder cell let us aright employ : 
There, low on earth, as kneeling reverence bids, 
To him our homage pay, with heart sincere, 
Who bids affliction hope, and triumph fear : 
Who, from the depth of ruin, yet may raise 
This prostrate isle, and bless with better days. 



THE PLAGUE DESCRIBED. — Dry den. 

The raw damps 
With flaggy wings fly heavily about, 
Scattering their pestilential colds and rheums 
Through all the lazy air. Hence murrains follow 
On bleating flocks, and on the lowing herds. 
At last the faithful malady grew more domestic, 
And the faithful dog 



104 

Died at his master's feet ; and next his master : 

For all those plagues which earth and air had brooded, 

First on inferior creatures tried their force, 

And last they seiz'd on man : 

And then a thousand deaths at once advanc'd, 

And every dart took place. All was so sudden, 

That scarce a first man fell. One but began 

To wonder, and straight fell, a wonder too ; 

A third, who stoop'd to raise his dying friend, 

Dropp'd in the pious act. Heard you that groan? 

A troop of ghosts took flight together there ! 

Now death 's grown riotous, and will play no more 

For single stakes, but families and tribes. 

With dead and dying men our streets are cover'd, 

And earth exposes bodies on the pavements 

More than those she hides in graves. 

Between the bride and bridegroom have I seen 

The nuptial torch do common offices 

Of marriage and of death. Cast round your eyes, 

Where late the streets were so thick sown with men, 

Like Cadmus' brood, they jostled for their passage ; 

Now look for those erected heads, and see them, 

Like pebbles, paving all our public ways. 



THE SOLEMNITY OF THE TEMPLE OR MANSION OF THE DEAD. 

Congreve. 

All is hush'd, and still as death — 'Tis dreadful ! 
How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, 
To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof, 
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, 
Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight : the tombs 
And monumental caves of death look cold, 
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. 
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice — 
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 
Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes. 



orator's own book. 105 



SOPHONISBA TO MASSINISSA.--Z.tvy. 

The will of the gods, your valour, and good fortune, 
have this day put us entirely in your power. But if it be 
permitted a captive to lift up a supplicating voice to the 
lord of her life, to embrace his knees, and touch his con- 
quering hand, I beg and entreat, by the regal dignity which 
we, too, lately possessed ; by the Numidian name, which 
Syphax shared with you ; by the deities of this royal man- 
sion, (may they prove more propitious to you than they 
have to him !) that you would grant this one favour to a 
wretched suppliant : — not to subject me to the cruel and 
imperious dominion of a Roman ; but to determine the fate 
of your prisoner according to your own pleasure. Had I 
been no other than the wife of Syphax, I would rather 
commit myself to the faith of a Numidian, and, like myself, 
a native of Africa, than to that of a stranger and a foreigner. 
What a Carthaginian, what the daughter of Asdrubal has 
to apprehend from a Roman, yourself may judge ! Oh ! if 
it be no otherwise possible, deliver me, I beseech and im- 
plore you, from the Roman power, by death. 



SCTPIO TO THE ROMANS. Livy. 

On this day, tribunes and Roman citizens ! I gained a 
signal victory in Africa over Hannibal and the Carthagi- 
nians. Since, then, such a day ought to be free from strife 
and litigation, I shall immediately go from hence to the 
capitol to pay my adorations to the highest Jove, to Juno, 
Minerva, and the other deities who preside over the sacred 
citadel ; and I shall return them thanks, that, both on 
this day and many times beside, they have inspired me" 
with the spirit and ability of doing essential service to 
the republic. Let such of you, too, as have leisure, ac- 
company me ; and pray the gods that you may ever 
have leaders like myself. For as, from the term of 
seventeen years to the decline of life, you have always 
outgone my age by the honours conferred on me, so I 
have anticipated your honours by my actions. 



106 



MANLIUS TO HIS SON. Livy. 

Since you, Titus Manlius ! forgetful of the reverence 
due to the consular and paternal authority, have fought 
with the enemy out of your rank, contrary to our express 
command, and thereby, as far as in you lay, have dissolved 
that military discipline which has hitherto supported the 
Roman state, and have reduced me to the necessity of dis- 
regarding either the public or my own family ; it is just 
that we should suffer for our own crime, rather than that 
the commonwealth should pay the forfeit for us, to its own 
great detriment. We shall afford a sad but salutary ex- 
ample to the youth of future times. I cannot but be moved 
on this occasion, not only on account of the natural affec- 
tion which every man bears to his children, but through 
regard to that specimen of early valour you have exhibited, 
though deceived by a false appearance of glory. Yet since 
the consular authority is either to receive a perpetual sanc- 
tion by your death, or to be for ever abrogated by your 
impunity ; I cannot suppose that even yourself, if any of 
my blood flows in your veins, would refuse to repair by 
your punishment that breach in military discipline which 
your fault has made. Go, lictor, bind him to the stake. 



EXTRACT FROM THE SPEECH OF EDMUND RANDOLPH, ON THE 
EXPEDIENCY OF ADOPTING THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION, 
IN THE CONVENTION, June 6, 1788. 

Mr. Chairman, — I am sorry to be obliged to detain the 
house, but the relation of a variety of matters, renders it 
now unavoidable. I informed the house yesterday, before 
rising, that I intended to show the necessity of having a 
national government, in preference to the confederation; 
also, to show the necessity of conceding the power of taxa- 
tion, and of distinguishing between its objects ; and I am the 
more happy, that I possess materials of information for that 
purpose. My intention then is, to satisfy the gentlemen of 
this committee, that a national government is absolutely in- 
dispensable, and that a confederacy is not eligible, in our 
present situation. The introductory step to this will be, to 



107 

endeavour to convince the house of the necessity of the 
union, and that the present confederation is actually inade- 
quate and unamendable. The extent of the country is ob- 
jected to by the gentleman over the way, as an insurmount- 
able obstacle to the establishing a national government in 
the United States. It is a very strange and inconsistent 
doctrine, to admit the necessity of the union, and yet urge 
this last objection, which I think goes radically to the exis- 
tence of the union itself. If the extent of the country be a 
conclusive argument against a national government, it is 
equally so, against an union with the other states. Instead 
of entering largely into a discussion of the nature and effect 
of the different kinds of government, or into an enquiry into 
the particular extent of country, that may suit the genius of 
this or that government, I ask this question — is this govern- 
ment necessary for the safety of Virginia? Is the union 
indispensable for our happiness ? I confess it is imprudent 
for any nation to form alliance with another, whose situation 
and construction of government are dissimilar with its own. 
It is impolitic and improper for men of opulence to join their 
interest with men of indigence and chance. But we are 
now enquiring, particularly, whether Virginia, as contradis- 
tinguished from the other states, can exist without the union 
— a hard question, perhaps, after what has been said. I 
will venture, however, to say, she cannot. I shall not rest 
contented with asserting, I shall endeavour to prove. Look 
at the most powerful nations on earth. England and France 
have had recourse to this expedient. Those countries found 
it necessary to unite with their immediate neighbours, and 
this union has prevented the most lamentable mischiefs. 
What divine pre-eminence is Virginia possessed of, above 
other states 1 Can Virginia send her navy and thunder, to 
bid defiance to foreign nations 1 And can she exist without 
an union with her neighbours, when the most potent nations 
have found such an union necessary, not only to their politi- 
cal felicity, but their national existence. Let us examine 
her ability. Although it be impossible to determine with 
accuracy, what degree of internal strength a nation ought 
to possess, to enable it to stand by itself; yet there are cer- 
tain sure facts and circumstances, which demonstrate, that a 
particular nation cannot stand singly. I have spoken with 
freedom, and, I trust, I have done it with decency ; but I 



108 orator's own book. 

must also speak with truth. If Virginia can exist without 
the union, she must derive that ability from one or other of 
these sources, viz. from her natural situation, or because 
she has no reason to fear from other nations. What is her 
situation ? She is not inaccessible. She is not a petty re- 
public, like that of St. Marino, surrounded with rocks and 
mountains, with a soil not very fertile, nor worthy the envy 
of surrounding nations. Were this, sir, her situation, she 
might, like that petty state, subsist, separated from all the 
world. On the contrary, she is very accessible : the large, 
capacious bay of Chesapeake, which is but too excellently 
adapted for the admission of enemies, renders her very vul- 
nerable. I am informed, and 1 believe rightly, because I 
derive my information from those whose knowledge is 
most respectable, that Virginia is in a very unhappy posi- 
tion, with respect to the access of foes by sea, though hap- 
pily situated for commerce. This being her situation by 
sea, let us look at land. She has frontiers adjoining the 
states of Pennsylvania, Maryland and North Carolina. Two 
of those states have declared themselves members of the 
union. Will she be inaccessible to the inhabitants of those 
states ? Cast your eyes to the western country, that is in- 
habited by cruel savages, your natural enemies. Besides 
their natural propensity to barbarity, they may be excited, 
by the gold of foreign enemies, to commit the most horrid 
ravages on your people. Our great, increasing population, 
is one remedy to this evil ; but, being scattered thinly over 
so extensive a country, how difficult it is to collect their 
strength, or defend the country. This is one point of weak- 
ness. I wish, for the honour of my countrymen, that it was 
the only one. There is another circumstance which ren- 
ders us more vulnerable. Are we not weakened by the 
population of those whom we hold in slavery ? The day may 
come, when they may make an impression upon us. Gen- 
tlemen, who have been long accustomed to the contempla- 
tion of the subject, think there is a cause of alarm in this 
case. The number of those people, compared to that of 
the whites, is in an immense proportion : their number 
amounts to two hundred and thirty-six thousand, that of the 
whites only to three hundred and fifty-two thousand. Will 
the American spirit, so much spoken of, repel an invading 
enemy, or enable you to obtain an advantageous peace ? 



orator's own book. 109 

Manufactures and military stores may afford relief to a 
country exposed : have we these at present 1 Attempts 
have been made to have these here. If we shall be sepa- 
rated from the union, shall our chance of having these be 
greater ? Or, will not the want of these be more deplora- 
ble? We shall be told of the exertions of Virginia, under 
the confederation — her achievements, when she had no 
commerce. These, sir, were necessary for her immediate 
safety, nor would these have availed, without the aid of the 
other states. Those states, then our friends, brothers, and 
supporters, will, if disunited from us, be our bitterest ene- 
mies. 

If then, sir, Virginia, from her situation, is not inacces- 
sible, or invulnerable ; let us consider if she be protected, 
by having no cause to fear from other nations : has she no 
cause to fear ? You will have cause to fear, as a nation, 
if disunited ; you will not only have this cause to fear from 
yourselves, from that species of population I before men- 
tioned, and your once sister states, but from the arms of 
other nations. Have you no cause of fear from Spain, 
whose dominions border on your country ? Every nation, 
every people, in our circumstances, have always had abun- 
dant cause to fear. Let us see the danger to be appre- 
hended from France : let us suppose Virginia separated 
from the other states : as part of the former confederated 
states, she will owe France a very considerable sum — 
France will be as magnanimous as ever. France, by the 
law of nations, will have a right to demand the whole of 
her, or of the others. If France were to demand it, what 
would become of the property of America ? Could she not 
destroy what little commerce we have ? Could she not 
seize our ships, and carry havoc and destruction before her 
on our shores? The most lamentable desolation would 
take place. We owe a debt to Spain also ; do we expect 
indulgence from that quarter ? The nation has a right to 
demand the debt due to it, and power to enforce that right. 
W ill the Dutch be silent about the debt due to them ? Is 
there any one pretension, that any of these nations will be 
patient ? The debts due the British are also very consider- 
able : these debts have been withheld contrary to treaty : 
if Great Britain will demand the payment of these debts 
peremptorily, what will be the consequence ? Can we pay 
10 



1 10 orator's own book. 

them if demanded ? Will no danger result from a refu- 
sal ? Will the British nation suffer their subjects to be 
stripped of their property ? Is not that nation amply able 
to do its subjects justice? Will the resentment of that 
powerful and supercilious nation sleep forever ? If we be- 
come one, sole nation, uniting with our sister states, our 
means of defence will be greater ; the indulgence, for the 
payment of those debts, will be greater, and the danger of 
an attack less probable. Moreover, vast quantities of lands 
have been sold, by citizens of this country, to Europeans, 
and these lands cannot be found. Will this fraud be coun- 
tenanced or endured ? Among so many causes of danger, 
shall we be secure, separated from our sister states? 
Weakness itself, sir, will invite some attack upon your 
country. Contemplate our situation deliberately, and con- 
sult history : it will inform you, that people, in our circum- 
stances, have ever been attacked, and successfully : open 
any page, and you will there find our danger truly depicted. 
If such a people had any thing, was it not taken ? The 
fate which will befall us, I fear, sir, will be, that we shall 
be made a partition of. How will these, our troubles, be 
removed. Can we have any dependence on commerce ? 
Can we make any computation on this subject. Where 
will our flag appear ? So high is the spirit of commer- 
cial nations, that they will spend five times the value of the 
object, to exclude their rivals from a participation in com- 
mercial profits : they seldom regard any expenses. If we 
should be divided from the rest of the states, upon what 
footing would our navigation in the Mississippi be ? What 
would be the probable conduct of France and Spain ? Every 
gentleman may imagine, in his own mind, the natural con- 
sequences. To these considerations I might add many 
others of a similar nature. Were I to say, that the boun- 
daries, between us and North Carolina, is not yet settled, 
I should be told, that Virginia and that state go toge- 
ther. But what, sir, will be the consequence of the dis- 
pute that may arise between us and Maryland, on the sub- 
ject of Potomac river ? It is thought, Virginia has a right 
to an equal navigation with them in that river. If ever it 
should be decided on grounds of prior right, their charter 
will inevitably determine it in their favour. The country 
called the Northern Neck will probably be severed from 



ORATORS OWN BOOK. Ill 

Virginia. There is not a doubt, but the inhabitants of that 
part will annex themselves to Maryland, if Virginia refuse 
to accede to the union. The recent examples of those 
regulations lately made respecting that territory, will 
illustrate that probability. Virginia will also be in danger 
of a conflict with Pennsylvania, on the subject of bounda- 
ries. I know that some gentlemen are thoroughly per- 
suaded, that we have a right to those disputed boundaries ; 
if we have such a right, I know not where it is to be 
found. 

Are we not borderers on those states that will be sepa- 
rated from us ? Call to mind the history of every part of 
the world, where nations have bordered on one another, 
and consider the consequences of our separation from the 
union. Peruse those histories, and you find such countries 
to have ever been almost a perpetual scene of bloodshed 
and slaughter. The inhabitants of one, escaping from 
punishment into the other — protection given them — conse- 
quent pursuit, cruelty, and murder. A numerous standing 
army, that dangerous expedient, would be necessary, but 
not sufficient, for the defence of these borders. Every 
gentleman will amplify the scene in his own mind. If you 
wish to know the extent of such a scene, look at the his- 
tory of England and Scotland before the union ; you will 
see their borders continually committing depredations and 
cruelties, of the most calamitous and deplorable nature, on 
one another. 

Mr. Chairman, were we struck off from the union, and 
disputes of the back lands should be renewed, which are 
of the most alarming nature, and which must produce un- 
common mischiefs, can you inform me how this great sub- 
ject would be settled? Virginia has a large unsettled 
country : she has, at last, quieted it ; but there are great 
doubts whether she has taken the best way to effect it. If 
she has not, disagreeable consequences may ensue. I have 
before hinted at some other causes of quarrel between the 
other states and us : particularly the hatred that would be 
generated by commercial competition. I will only add, on 
that subject, that controversies may arise concerning the 
fisheries, which must terminate in wars. Paper money may 
also be an additional source of disputes. Rhode Island has 
been in one continued train of opposition to national duties 



1 12 orator's own book. 

and integrity : they have defrauded their creditors by their 
paper money. Other states have also had emissions of 
paper money, to the ruin of credit and commerce. May not 
Virginia, at a future day, also recur to the same expedient ? 
Has Virginia no affection for paper money, or disposition to 
violate contracts 1 I fear she is as fond of these measures 
as most other states in the union. The inhabitants of the 
adjacent states, would be affected by the depreciation of 
paper money, which would assuredly produce a dispute with 
those states. This danger is taken away by the present 
constitution, as it provides, " That no state shall emit bills 
of credit." Maryland has counteracted the policy of this 
state frequently, and may be meditating examples of this 
kind again. Before the revolution there was a contest about 
those back lands, in which even government was a party : it 
was put an end to by the war. Pennsylvania was ready to 
enter into a war with us for the disputed lands near the 
boundaries, and nothing but the superior prudence of the 
man, who was at the head of affairs in Virginia, could have 
prevented it. 



EXTRACT FROM THE ORATION DELIVERED AT BOSTON, MARCH 

5, 1772, THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BOSTON MASSACRE. 

BY JOSEPH WARREN. 

You, have, my friends and countrymen, frustrated the 
designs of your enemies by your unanimity and fortitude : it 
was your union and determined spirit which expelled those 
troops, who polluted your streets with innocent blood. You 
have appointed this anniversary as a standard memorial of 
the bloody consequences of placing an armed force in a po- 
pulous city, and of your deliverance from the dangers which 
then seemed to hang over your heads ; and I am confident 
that you never will betray the least want of spirit when 
called upon to guard your freedom. None but they, who 
set a just value upon the blessings of liberty, are worthy to 
enjoy her — your illustrious fathers were her zealous votaries 
— when the blasting frowns of tyranny drove her from pub- 
lic view, they clasped her in their arms ; they cherished 
her in their generous bosoms ; they brought her safe over 
the rough ocean, and fixed her seat in this then dreary wil- 



orator's own book. 1 1 3 

derness ; they nursed her infant age witn the most tender 
care ; for her sake, they patiently bore the severest hard- 
ships ; for her support, they underwent the most rugged 
toils; in her defence, they boldly encountered the most 
alarming dangers : neither the ravenous beasts that ranged 
the woods for prey, nor the more furious savages of the wil- 
derness, could damp their ardour ! Whilst with one hand 
they broke the stubborn glebe, with the other they grasped 
their weapons, ever ready to protect her from danger. No 
sacrifice, not even their own blood, was esteemed too rich a 
libation for her altar ! God prospered their valour ; they 
preserved her brilliancy unsullied ; they enjoyed her whilst 
they lived, and dying, bequeathed the dear inheritance to 
your care. And as they left you this glorious legacy, they 
have undoubtedly transmitted to you some portion of their 
noble spirit, to inspire you with virtue to merit her, and cou- 
rage to preserve her. You cannot, with such examples be- 
fore your eyes, as every page of the history of this country 
affords,* suffer your liberties to be ravished from you by 
lawless force, or cajoled away by flattery and fraud. 

The voice of your father's blood cries to you from the 
ground, my sons scorn to be slaves ! In vain we met the 
frowns of tyrants — in vain we crossed the boisterous ocean, 
found a new world, and prepared it for the happy residence 
of liberty — in vain we toiled — in vain we fought— we bled 
in vain, if you, our offspring, want valour to repel the assaults 
of her invaders ! Stain not the glory of your worthy ances- 
tors, but like them, resolve never to part with your birth- 
right ; be wise in your deliberations, and determined in your 
exertions for the preservation of your liberties. Follow not 
the dictates of passion, but enlist yourselves under the sacred 
banner of reason ; use every method in your power to secure 
your rights ; at least prevent the curses of posterity from 
being heaped upon your memories. 

If you, with united zeal and fortitude, oppose the torrent 
of oppression ; if you feel the true fire of patriotism burning 
in your breasts : if you, from your souls, despise the most 
gaudy dress that slavery can wear ; if you really prefer the 
lonely cottage, (whilst blest with liberty,) to gilded palaces, 

* At simul heroum laudes, et facta parentis, 
Jam legere, et quae sit poteris cognoscere virtus. — Virg. 
10* 



114 orator's own book. 

surrounded with the ensigns of slavery, you may have the 
fullest assurance that tyranny, with her whole accursed 
train, will hide their hideous heads in confusion, shame, and 
despair. If you perform your part, you must have the 
strongest confidence that the same Almighty Being who 
protected your pious and venerable forefathers, who enabled 
them to turn a barren wilderness into a fruitful field, who so 
often made bare his arm for their salvation, will still be 
mindful of you, their offspring. 

May this Almighty Being, graciously preside in all our 
councils. May he direct us to such measures as he himself 
shall approve and be pleased to bless. May we ever be a 
people favoured of God. May our land be a land of liberty, 
the seat of virtue, the asylum of the oppressed, a name and 
a praise in the whole earth, until the last shock of time 
shall bury the empires of the world in one common undistin- 
guished ruin ! 



MEMORY.- — Goldsmith. 

O memory ! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain : 
Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing, 

Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo ! 
And he who wants each other blessing, 

In thee must ever find a foe. 



HOPE. Goldsmith. 

The wretch condemn'd with life to part 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang that rends the heart, 

Bids expectation rise. 
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 



orator's own book. 115 



THE UNBELIEVER. Chalmers. 

I pity the unbeliever — one who can gaze upon the gran- 
deur, the glory, and beauty of the natural universe, and 
behold not the touches of His finger, who is over, and with, 
and above all ; from my very heart I do commiserate his 
condition. 

The unbeliever ! one whose intellect the light of revela- 
tion never penetrated ; who can gaze upon the sun, and 
moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable 
sky, spread out so magnificently above him, and say all this 
is the work of chance. The heart of such a being is a drear 
and cheerless void. In him, mind— the god-like gift of in- 
tellect, is debased — destroyed ; all is dark — a fearful chao- 
tic labyrinth — rayless — cheerless — hopeless ! 

No- gleam of light from heaven penetrates the blackness 
of the horrible delusion ; no voice from the eternal bids the 
desponding heart rejoice. No fancied tones from the harps 
of seraphim arouse the dull spirit from its lethargy, or allay 
the consuming fever of the brain. The wreck of mind is 
utterly remediless ; reason is prostrate ; and passion, preju- 
dice, and superstition, have reared their temple on the ruins 
of his intellect. 

I pity the unbeliever. What to him is the revelation 
from on high, but a sealed book! He sees nothing above, 
or around, or beneath him, that evinces the existence of a 
God ; and he denies — yea, while standing on the footstool 
of Omnipotence, and gazing upon the dazzling throne of 
Jehovah, he shuts his intellect to the light of reason, and 

DENIES THERE IS A GOD. 



SUBLIMITY OF MOUNTAIN SCENERY. Croly. 

Of all the sights that nature offers to the eye and mind of 
man, mountains have always stirred my strongest feelings. 
I have seen the Ocean, when it was turned up from the bot- 
tom by tempest, and noon was like night, with the conflict 
of the billows, and the storm, that tore and scattered them 
in mist and foam across the sky. I have seen the Desert 
rise around me, and calmly, in the midst of thousands utter- 



116 ORATOR'S OWN BOOK. 

ing cries of horror and paralysed by feaj, have contemplated 
the sandy pillars, coming like the advance of some gigantic 
city of conflagration flying across the wilderness, every 
column glowing with intense fire, and every blast death ; the 
sky vaulted with gloom, the earth a furnace. 

But with me, the mountain — in tempest or in calm, the 
throne of the thunder, or with the evening sun, painting its 
dells and declivities in colours dipped in heaven — has been 
the source of the most absorbing sensations. There stands 
magnitude, giving the instant impression of a power above 
man — grandeur, that defies decay — antiquity, that tells of 
ages unnumbered — beauty, that the touch of time makes 
only more beautiful — use, exhaustless for the service of man 
— strength, imperishable as the globe ; — the monument of 
eternity, — the truest earthly emblem of that ever-living, un- 
changeable, irresistible Majesty, by whom, and for whom, 
all things were made ! 



THE CONDITION AND EFFECTS OF GUILT. 

Extract from Mr. Curran's speech in the case of Massey against Headfort.* 

Gentlemen of the Jury, — Never, so clearly as in the pre- 
sent instance, have I observed that safeguard of justice which 
Providence has placed in the nature of man. Such is the 
imperious dominion with which truth and reason wave their 
sceptre over the human intellect, that no solicitation, how- 
ever artful, no talent, however commanding, can reduce it 
from its allegiance. 

You have seen it in the learned advocate, who has pre- 
ceded me, most peculiarly and strikingly illustrated — you 
have seen even his great talents, perhaps the first in any 
country, languishing under a cause too weak to carry him, 
and too heavy to be carried by him. He was forced to dis- 
miss his natural candour and sincerity, and, havng no 
merits in his case, to substitute the dignity of his own man- 

* This trial, which took place at Ennis, in Ireland, was one that 
excited vast interest, from the character of the parties. The plaintiff, 
the Rev. Charles Massey, of Sommerhill, Ireland, was a clergyman of 
an eminently high character. The defendant was the Marquis of 
Headfort, an English lord, of vast wealth, but of a most wicked and 
abandoned character. 



orator's own book. 117 

ner, the resources of his own ingenuity, over the overwhelm- 
ing difficulties with which he was surrounded. Wretched 
client ! Unhappy advocate ! What a combination do you 
form ! But such is the condition of guilt — its commission, 
mean and tremulous — its defence, artificial and insincere — 
its prosecution, candid and simple — its condemnation, digni- 
fied and austere. Such has been the defendant's guilt — 
such his defence — such shall be my address, and such, I 
trust, your verdict. The learned counsel has told you, that 
this unfortunate woman is not to be estimated at forty thou- 
sand pounds. Fatal and unquestionable is the truth of this 
assertion. Alas ! gentlemen, she is no longer worth any 
thing — faded, fallen, degraded and disgraced, she is worth 
less than nothing ! But it is for the honour, the hope, the 
expectation, the tenderness, and the comforts, that have been 
blasted by the defendant, and have fled for ever, that you are 
to remunerate the plaintiff, by the punishment of the defen- 
dant. It is not her present value, which you are to weigh, 
but it is her value at that time, when she sat basking in a 
husband's love, with the blessing of heaven on her head, and 
its purity in her heart — when she sat amongst her family, 
and administered the morality of the parental board. Esti- 
mate that past value — compare it with its present deplora- 
ble diminution — and it may lead you to form some judgment 
of the severity of the injury, and the extent of the compen- 
sation. 



THE PERORATION OF MR. BURKES SPEECH, IN THE IMPEACH- 
MENT OF WARREN HASTINGS.* 

Extract from Mr. Burke's speech in Westminster Hall, on the sixth day of the trial, 
15th Feb. 1788. 

My Lords, — We have now laid before you the whole con- 
duct of Warren Hastings, foul, wicked, nefarious, and cruel 
as it has been, and we ask, what is it, that we want here to 

* In 1772 Warren Hastings was appointed governor-general of 
India. In 1785 he returned to England. Between which periods 
very many accounts having been received of his mal-administration, 
Mr. Burke, in that year, in the house of commons, moved an enquiry 
into his conduct. This resulted in a vote of impeachment. On the 
13th Feb. 1788, Westminster Hall was opened in due form for the 



1 18 orator's own book. 

a great act of national justice ? Do we want a cause, my 
lords ? You have the cause of oppressed princes, of undone 
women of the first rank, of desolated provinces, and of wasted 
kingdoms. 

Do you want a criminal, my lords ? When was there so 
much iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one ? — No, my 
lords, you must not look to punish any other such delin- 
quent from India. Warren Hastings has not left substance 
enough in India to nourish such another delinquent. 

My lords, is it a prosecutor you want ? — You have before 
you the Commons of Great Britain as prosecutors ; and, I 
believe, my lords, that the sun, in his beneficent progress 
round the world, does not behold a more glorious sight than 
that of men, separated from a remote people by the mate- 
rial bonds and barriers of nature, united by the bond of a 
social and moral community; — all the Commons of England 
resenting, as their own, the indignities and cruelties that are 
offered to all the people of India. 

Do you want a tribunal ? My Lords, no example of anti- 
quity, nothing in the modern world, nothing in the range of 
human imagination, can supply us with a tribunal like this. 
My lords, here we see, virtually, in the mind's eye, that 
sacred majesty of the crown, under whose authority you 
sit, and whose power you exercise. We have here the heir 
apparent to the crown. We have here all the branches of 
the royal family, in a situation between majesty and subjec- 
tion. My lords, we have a great hereditary peerage here : 
those, who have their own honour, the honour of their an- 



trial. Mr. Burke, as head manager, made the introductory speech 
— a speech not surpassed by any effort _of eloquence of ancient or 
modern times. 

Of the degree of guilt attached to Mr. Hasting's conduct, there 
have been various and conflicting opinions. His partisans have ever 
held up his acquittal as a proof of his innocence; while others have 
said that this was owing to law quibbles — to the want of strictly legal 
evidence. That he appointed agents of a suspicious cbaracter, and 
that these agents committed the foulest crimes, are facts indisputa- 
ble. It is equally certain, that he did very many things which would 
not have been tolerated in England ; but his friends say, that all these 
were justified by his peculiar situation. Mr. Burke was convinced of 
his guilt to the last moment of his life; and Mills, in his history of 
British India has said, " if his accusers did not prove his guilt, he 
himself did not prove his innocence." 



ORATOR'S OWN BOOK. 119 

cestors, and of their posterity, to guard. We have here a 
new nobility, who have risen, and exalted themselves by 
various merits, by great military services, which have ex- 
tended the fame of this country from the rising to the set- 
ting sun. We have persons exalted from the practice of 
the law, from the place in which they administered high, 
though subordinate justice, to a seat here, to enlighten with 
their knowledge, and to strengthen with their votes, those 
principles which have distinguished the courts in which 
they have presided. My lords, you have here also the 
lights of our religion ; you have the bishops of England. 
You have the representatives of that religion, which says, 
that their God is love, that the very vital spirit of their insti- 
tution is charity. 

My lords, these are the securities which we have in all 
the constituent parts of this house, We know them, we 
reckon, we rest upon them, and commit safely the interests 
of India and of humanity into your hands. Therefore, it is 
with confidence, that, ordered by the Commons, 

I impeach Warren Hastings, Esq. of high crimes and 
misdemeanours. 

I impeach him, in the name of the Commons of Great 
Britain, in parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust 
he has betrayed. 

I impeach him, in the name of all the Commons of Great 
Britain, whose national character he has dishonoured. 

I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose 
laws, rights, and liberties he has subverted ; whose proper- 
ties he has destroyed, whose country he has laid waste and 
desolate. 

I impeach him, in the name, and by virtue, of those eter- 
nal laws of justice which he has violated. 

I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which 
he has cruelly outraged, injured, and oppressed in both sexes, 
in every age, rank, situation, and condition of life. 



120 orator's own book. 



PARLIAMENTARY REFORM OPPOSED. 

Conclusion of Sir Robert Peel's speech on the question of Parliamentary Reform > 
delivered in the British House of Commons, March 3, 1831. 

Mr. Speaker,— I deprecate, above all things, the course 
which some gentlemen have taken on this subject of Parlia- 
mentary Reform — that of making the revolution in France, 
a precedent for a revolution in this country. Let us, sir, 
remain content with the well-tempered freedom which we 
now enjoy, and which we have the means of securing, if we 
act with ordinary discretion. I lament exceedingly, sir, 
that government should have determined to agitate such a 
question as that of reform at this particular crisis ; it would 
have been much wiser in my opinion, to have avoided these 
new causes of excitement ; for, depend upon it, that by this 
process, throughout this land, the first seeds of discontent 
and disunion are sown. In every town, sir, there will be a 
conflict — a moral conflict, I mean — between the possessors 
of existing authority, and the existing privileges and those to 
whom the existing authority and existing privileges are to be 
transferred. Sir, I lament, beyond measure, that govern- 
ment had not the prudence to adhere to that temperate 
course of policy which they have pursued elsewhere. I 
lament, that, if they did think it necessary to propose a plan 
of reform in this excited state of the public mind, they did 
not confine it within those narrow limits, which would be 
consistent with the safety of the country, and the dignity of 
their own characters. They have thought proper, however, 
to adopt another course : — they have sent through the land 
the fire-brand of agitation — and it is easy, so far, to imitate 
the giant enemy of the Philistines, as to send three hundred 
fire-brands through the country, carrying danger and dis- 
may in all quarters : — but it is not so easy, when the mis- 
chief is done, to find a remedy for it. In the present diffi- 
culties of your situation, sir, you should have the power of 
summoning all the energies of life, and should take care that 
you do not signalize your own destruction, by bowing down 
the pillars of the edifice of your liberty, which, with all its 
imperfections, still contains the noblest society of freemen 
known to the habitable world. 



orator's own book. 121 

<v 

SPECIMEN OF THE ELOQUENCE OF JAMES OTIS. 

Extract from "The Rebels." — Miss Francis. 

England may as well dam up the waters of the Nile 
with bulrushes, as to fetter the step of freedom, more proud 
and firm in this youthful land than where she treads the 
sequestered glens of Scotland, or couches herself among the 
magnificent mountains of Switzerland. Arbitrary princi- 
ples, like those against which we now contend, have cost 
one king of England his life, another his crown — and they 
may yet cost a third his most flourishing colonies. 

We are two millions— -one fifth fighting men. We are 
bold and vigorous, — and we call no man master. To the 
nation, from which we are proud to derive our origin, we 
ever were, and we ever will be, ready to yield unforced as- 
sistance ; but it must not, and it never can be extorted. 

Some have sneeringly asked, " Are the Americans too 
poor to pay a few pounds on stamped paper ?" No ! Ame- 
rica, thanks to God and herself, is rich. But the right to 
take ten pounds implies the right to take a thousand ; and 
what must be the wealth, that avarice, aided by power, 
cannot exhaust ? True, the spectre is now small ; but the 
shadow he casts before him, is huge enough to darken all 
this fair land. 

Others, in sentimental style, talk of the immense debt of 
gratitude, which we owe to England. And what is the 
amount of this debt? Why, truly, it is the same that the 
young lion owes to the dam, which has brought it forth on 
the solitude of the mountain, or left it amid the winds and 
storms of the desert. 

We plunged into the wave, with the great charter of free- 
dom in our teeth, because the fagot and torch were be- 
hind us. We have waked this new world from its savage 
lethargy ; forests have been prostrated in our path ; towns 
and cities have grown up suddenly as the flowers of the tro- 
pics, and the fires in our autumnal woods are scarcely more 
rapid than the increase of our wealth and population. 

And do we owe all this to the kind succour of the mother 
country ? No, we owe it to the tyranny that drove us 
from her — to the pelting storms, which invigorated our 
helpless infancy. 
11 



122 orator's own book. 

But perhaps others will say, " We ask no money from 
your gratitude— we only demand that you should pay your 
own expenses." And who, I pray, is to judge of their ne- 
cessity 1 Why, the king — and with all due reverence to 
his sacred majesty, he understands the real wants of his dis- 
tant subjects, as little as he does the language of the Choc- 
taws. Who is to judge concerning the frequency of these 
demands? The ministry. Who is to judge whether the 
money is properly expended 1 The cabinet behind the 
throne. 

In every instance, those who take are to judge for those 
who pay. If this system is suffered to go into operation, we 
shall have reason to esteem it a great privilege that rain 
and dew do not depend upon parliament : otherwise they 
would soon be taxed and dried. 

But thanks to God, there is freedom enough left upon 
earth to resist such monstrous injustice. The flame of 
liberty is extinguished in Greece and Rome ; but the light of 
its glowing embers are still bright and strong on the shores 
of America. Actuated by its sacred influence, we will resist 
unto death. But we will not countenance anarchy and mis- 
rule. The wrongs, that a desperate community have heaped 
upon their enemies, shall be amply and speedily repaired. 
Still, it may be well for some proud men to remember, that 
a fire is lighted in these colonies, which one breath of their 
king may kindle into such fury, that the blood of all Eng- 
land cannot extinguish it. 



HOME DEAR TO THE AFRICAN ; AND THE GUILT OF TEARING 
HIM FROM IT. 

Extract from "The West Indies," a poem by James Montgomery. 

Man, through all ages of revolving time, 
Unchanging man, in every varying clime, 
Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
His home the spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
And is the Negro outlawed from his birth 1 
Is he alone a stranger on the earth ? 
Is there no shed, whose peeping roof appears 
So lovely, that it fills his eyes with tears ? 



orator's own book. 123 

No land, whose name, in exile heard, will dart 

Ice through his veins, and lightning through his heart ? 

Ah ! yes ; beneath the beams of brighter skies, 

His home amidst his father's country lies ; 

There, with the partner of his soul, he shares 

Love-mingled pleasures, love-divided cares; 

There, as with nature's warmest, filial fire, 

He soothes his blind, and feeds his helpless sire ; 

His children, sporting round his hut, behold 

How they shall cherish him when he is old. 

Thus lived the Negro in his native land, 

Till Christian cruisers anchored on his strand ; 

— 'Twas night ; his babes around him lay at rest, 

Their mother slumber'd on their father's breast ; 

A yell of murder rang around their bed ; 

They woke ; their cottage blazed ; the victims fled ; 

Forth sprang the ambushed ruffians on their prey, 

They caught, they bound, they drove them far away ; 

The white man bought them at the mart of blood ; 

In pestilential barks they crossed the flood ; 

Then were the wretched ones asunder torn, 

To distant isles, to separate bondage borne, 

Denied, though sought with tears, the sad relief 

That misery loves, — the fellowship of grief. 



EXTRACT FROM MR. WEBSTER S srEECH IN THE SENATE, IN 
REPLY TO MR. CALHOUN ON " NULLIFICATION." 

Sir, — I love liberty no less ardently than the gentleman 
in whatever form she may have appeared in the progress 
of human history. As exhibited in the master states of anti- 
quity, as breaking out again from amidst the darkness of the 
middle ages, and beaming on the formation of new commu- 
nities in modern Europe, she has, always, and everywhere, 
charms for me. Yet, sir, it is our own liberty, guarded by 
constitutions and secured by union ; it is that liberty which 
is our paternal inheritance, it is our established, dear bought, 
peculiar American liberty, to which I am chiefly devoted, 
and the cause of which I now mean, to the utmost of my 
power, to maintain and defend. 



124 orator's own book. 

Mr. President, if I considered the constitutional question 
now before us as doubtful as it is important, and if I sup- 
posed that its decision, either in the senate or by the coun- 
try, was likely to be in any degree influenced by the manner 
in which I might now discuss it, this would be to me a mo- 
ment of deep solicitude. Such a moment has once existed. 
There has been a time, when rising in this place, on the 
same question, I felt, I must confess, that something for 
good or evil to the constitution of the country might depend 
on an effort of mine. But circumstances are changed. Since 
that day, sir, the public opinion has become awakened to 
this great question : it has grasped it ; it has reasoned upon 
it, as becomes an intelligent and patriotic community, and 
has settled it, or now seems in the progress of settling it, by 
an authority which none can disobey — the authority of the 
people themselves. 

1 shall not, Mr. President, follow the gentleman, step by 
step, through the course of his speech. Much of what he 
has said he has deemed necessary to the just explanation 
and defence of his own political character and conduct. On 
this I shall offer no comment. Much, too, has consisted of 
philosophical remark upon the general nature of political 
liberty, and the history of free institutions : and of other 
topics, so general, in their nature, as to possess, in my opi- 
nion, only a remote bearing on the immediate subject of 
this debate. 

But the gentleman's speech, made some days ago, upon 
introducing his resolutions, those resolutions themselves, and 
parts of the speech now just concluded, may probably be 
justly regarded as containing the whole South Carolina doc- 
trine. That doctrine it is my purpose now to examine, and 
to compare it with the Constitution of the United States. I 
shall not consent, sir, to make any new constitution, or to 
establish another form of government. I will not undertake to 
say what a constitution for these United States ought to be. 
That question the people have decided for themselves ; and 
I shall take the instrument as they have established it, and 
shall endeavour to maintain it in its plain sense and mean- 
ing, against opinions and notions which, in nry judgment, 
threaten its subversion. 



orator's own book. 125 



EXTRACT FROM THE SAME SPEECH. 

The natural converse of accession is secession ; and, 
therefore, when it is stated that the people of the states 
acceded to the Union, it may be more plausibly argued that 
they may secede from it. If, in adopting the constitution, no- 
thing was done but acceding to a compact, nothing would 
seem necessary in order to break it up, but to secede from 
the same compact. But the term is wholly out of place. 
Accession, as a word applied to political associations, im- 
plies coming into a league, treaty, or confederacy, by one 
hitherto a stranger to it ; and secession implies departing 
from such league or confederacy. The people of the United 
States have used no such form of expression in establishing 
the present government. They do not say that they accede 
to a league, but they declare that they ordain and establish 
a constitution. Such are the very words of the instrument 
itself: and in all the states, without an exception, the lan- 
guage used by their convention was, that they " ratified the 
constitution ;" some of them employing the additional words 
" assented to" and " adopted," but all of them " ratifying." 
There is more importance than may, at first sight, appear in 
the introduction of this new word by the honourable mover 
of these resolutions. Its adoption and use are indispensable 
to maintain those premises, from which his main conclusion 
is to be afterwards drawn. But, before showing that, allow 
me to remark, that this phraseology tends to keep out of 
sight the just view of our previous political history, as well 
as to suggest wrong ideas as to what was actually done when 
the present constitution was agreed to. In 1789, and be- 
fore this constitution was adopted, the United States had 
already been in a Union, more or less close, for fifteen years. 
At least as far back as the meeting of the first congress, in 
1774, they had been, in some measure, and to some national 
purposes, united together. Before the confederation of 
1781, they had declared independence jointly, and had car- 
ried on the war jointly, both by sea and land ; and this, not 
as separate states, but as one people. When, therefore, 
they formed that confederation, and adopted its articles as 
articles of perpetual union, they did not come together for 
the first time ; and, therefore they did not speak of the 
States as acceding to the confederation, although it was a 
11* 



126 orator's own book. 

league, and nothing but a league, and rested on nothing but 
plighted faith for its performance. Yet, even then, the 
States were not strangers to each other ; there was a bond 
of union already subsisting between them ; they were asso- 
ciated, United States ; and the object of the confederation 
was to make a stronger and better bond of union. Their 
representatives deliberated together on these proposed Arti- 
cles of Confederation, and, being authorised by their respec- 
tive states, finally " ratified and confirmed" them. Inas- 
much as they were already in union, they did not speak of 
acceding to the new Articles of confederation, but of ratify- 
ing and confirming them ; and this language was not used 
inadvertently, because in the same instrument, accession is 
used in its proper sense, when applied to Canada, which was 
altogether a stranger to the existing Union. " Canada," 
says the 11th article, " acceding to this confederation, and 
joining in the measures of the United States, shall be admit- 
ted into the Union." 

Having thus used the terms ratify and confirm, even in 
regard to the old confederation, it would have been strange, 
indeed, if the people of the United States, after its forma- 
tion, and when they came to establish the present constitu- 
tion, had spoken of the states, or the people of the states, 
as acceding to this constitution. Such language would 
have been ill suited to the occasion. It would have implied 
an existing separation or disunion among the states, such as 
never has existed since 1774. No such language, therefore, 
was used. The language actually employed is, adopt, rati- 
fy, ordain, establish. 

Therefore, sir, since any state, before she can prove her 
right to dissolve the Union, must show her authority to undo 
what has been done, no state is at liberty to secede, on the 
ground that she and other states have done nothing but 
accede. She must show that she has a right to reverse what 
has been ordained, to unsettle and overthrow what has been 
established, to reject what the people have adopted, and to 
break up what they have ratified : because these are the 
terms which express the transactions which have actually 
taken place. In other words, she must show her right to 
make a revolution. 



127 



EXTRACT FROM THE SA.ME. 



Sir, I intend to hold the gentleman to the written record. 
In the discussion of a constitutional question, 1 intend to 
impose upon him the restraints of constitutional language. 
The people have ordained a constitution ; can they reject it 
without revolution ? They have established a form of go- 
vernment ; can they overthrow it without revolution ? These 
are the true questions. 

Allow me now, Mr. President, to enquire farther into the 
extent of the propositions contained in the resolutions, and 
their necessary consequences. 

Where sovereign communities are parties, there is no es- 
sential difference between a compact, a confederation, and a 
league. They all equally rest on the plighted faith of the 
sovereign party. A league or confederacy, is but a sub- 
sisting or continuing treaty. 

The gentleman's resolutions, then, affirm, in effect, that 
these twenty-four United States, are held together only by a 
subsisting treaty, resting for its fulfilment and continuance 
on no inherent power of its own, but on the plighted faith of 
each state ; or, in other words, that our Union is but a 
league ; and, as a consequence from this proposition, they 
further affirm that, as sovereigns are subject to no superior 
power, the states must decide, each for itself, of any alleged 
violation of the league ; and if such violation be supposed to 
have occurred, each may adopt any mode or measure of 
redress which it shall think proper. 

Other consequences naturally follow, too, from the main 
proposition. If a league between sovereign powers have no 
limitation as to the time of its duration, and contain nothing 
making it perpetual, it subsists only during the good plea- 
sure of the parties, although no violation be complained of. 
If, in the opinion of either party, it be violated, such party 
may say that he will no longer fulfil its obligations on his 
part, but will consider the whole league or compact at an 
end, although it might be one of its stipulations that it 
should be perpetual. Upon this principle, the congress of 
the United States, in 1798, declared null and void the treaty 
of alliance between the United States and France, though it 
professed to be a perpetual alliance. 

If the violation of the league be accompanied with serious 



128 

injuries, the suffering party, being sole judge of his own 
mode and measure of redress, has a right to indemnify him- 
self by reprisals on the offending members of the league ; 
and reprisals, if the circumstances of the case require it, 
may be followed by direct, avowed, and public war. 

The necessary import of the resolutions, therefore, is, that 
the United States are connected only by a league ; that it is 
in the good pleasure of every state to decide how long she 
will choose to remain a member of this league ; that any 
state may determine the extent of her own obligations under 
it, and accept or reject what shall be decided by the whole ; 
that she may also determine whether her rights have been 
violated, what is the extent of the injury done her, and what 
mode and measure of redress her wrongs may make it fit 
and expedient for her to adopt. The result of the whole is, 
that any state may secede at pleasure ; that any state may 
resist a law which she herself may choose to say exceeds the 
power of congress ; and that, as a sovereign power, she may 
redress her own grievances, by her own arm, at her own 
discretion ; she may make reprisals ; she may cruise against 
the property of other members of the league ; she may 
authorise captures, and make open war. 

If, sir, this be our political condition, it is time the people 
of the United States understood it. Let us look for a mo- 
ment to the practical consequences of these opinions. One 
state, holding an embargo law unconstitutional, may declare 
her opinion, and withdraw from the Union. She secedes. 
Another, forming and expressing the same judgment on a law 
laying duties on imports, may withdraw also. She secedes. 
And as, in her opinion, money has been taken out of the 
pockets of her citizens illega%, under pretence of this law, 
and as she has power to redress their wrongs, she may de- 
mand satisfaction ; and if refused, she may take it with a 
strong hand. The gentleman has himself pronounced the 
collection of duties, under existing laws, to be nothing but 
robbery. Robbers, of course, may be rightfully dispossessed 
of the fruits of their flagitious crimes; and, therefore, repri- 
sals, imposition on the commerce of other states, foreign 
alliances against them, or open war, are all modes of redress 
justly open to the discretion and choice of South Carolina; 
for she is to judge of her own rights, and to seek satisfac- 
tion for her own wrongs, in her own way. 



orator's own book. 129 

But, sir, a third state is of opinion, not only that these 
laws of imposts are constitutional, but that it is the absolute 
duty of congress to pass and to maintain such laws ; and 
that, by omitting to pass and maintain them, its constitu- 
tional obligations would be grossly disregarded. She relin- 
quished the power of protection, she might allege, and allege 
truly, herself, and gave it up to congress, on the faith that 
congress would exercise it. If congress now refuse to ex- 
ercise it, congress does, as she may insist, break the condi- 
tion of the grant, and thus manifestly violate the constitution ; 
and for this violation of the constitution, she may threaten 
to secede also. Virginia may secede, and hold the fortresses 
in the Chesapeake. The western states may secede, and 
take to their own use the public lands. Louisiana may 
secede if she choose, form a foreign alliance, and hold the 
mouth of the Mississippi. If one state may secede, ten may 
do so — twenty may do so— twenty-three may do so. Sir, 
as these secessions go on, one after another, what is to con- 
stitute the United States ? Whose will be the army ? 
Whose the navy ? Who will pay the debts ? Who fulfil 
the public treaties ? Who perform the constitutional gua- 
rantees? Who govern this district and the territories? 
Who retain the public property ? 

Mr. President, every man must see that these are all 
questions which can arise only after a revolution. They 
presuppose the breaking up the government. While the 
the constitution lasts they are repressed ; they spring up to 
annoy and startle us only from its grave. 



CONCLUSION OF MR. EMMETT S SPEECH, IN THE TRIAL OF 
WILLIAM S. SMITH. 

I could wish, before 1 conclude, to make another obser- 
vation. This trial has, by some, been considered as a party 
question, and I understand that my conduct, in the defence 
of the gentleman indicted, has been talked of by the weak 
and ignorant, as something like a dereliction of my profess- 
ed political principles. 1 pity such party bigots, and have 
only to assure them, that no feelings, such as they possess, 
shall ever weaken my zeal for my client. But as to my 
political principles, they are a subject on which I am too 



130 orator's own book. 

proud to parley, or enter into a vindicatory explanation with 
any man. In me, republicanism is not the result of birth, 
nor the accidental offspring of family connections — it is the 
fruit of feeling and sentiment, of study and reflection, of ob- 
servation and experience — it is endeared to me by sufferings 
and misfortunes. I see gentlemen on that jury, between 
whose political principles and mine, there is not a shade of 
difference — we agree as to the hands, to which we would con- 
fide the offices, honours, power and wealth of the republic. 
I trust we also agree in this, that nothing can be more inju- 
rious to the due administration of the law, than that politi- 
cal considerations or party prejudices should be permitted to 
ascend the bench, or enter into the jury-box. That pollu- 
tion of justice has given rise to many of those abominations 
and horrors which have disgraced and desolated Europe. I 
adjure you, do not mingle the spirit of party with the whole- 
some medicine of the law ; for if you do, most assuredly, 
sooner or later, even-handed justice will commend the ingre- 
dients of the poisoned chalice to your own lips. I entreat 
you, exercise your prerogatives, and discharge your duty in 
the spirit of uprightness and mercy — do not suffer the defen- 
dant to be sacrificed, as a sin-offering or a peace-offering ; 
and if he is to be made the scape-goat, on which are to be 
fixed the faults of others, give him, at least, the privilege of 
escape. 



CATHARINA ADDKESSED TO MISS STAPLETON. Cowper. 

She came — she is gone — we have met — 

And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set, 

And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina has fled like a dream — 

(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) 
But has left a regret and esteem, 

That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last evening ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, and I, 
Our progress was often delayed 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 



orator's own book. 131 

We paused under many a tree, 

And much was she charmed with a tone 
Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witnessed her own. 

My numbers that day she had sung, 

And gave them a grace so divine, 
As only her musical tongue 

Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heard, I esteemed 

The work of my fancy the more, 
And ev'n to myself never seemed 
So tuneful a poet before. 

Though the pleasures of London exceed 

In number the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 

Would feel herself happier here ; 
For the close woven arches of limes, 

On the banks of our river, 1 know, 
Are sweeter to her many times 

Than aught that the city can show. 

So it is, when the mind is endued 

With a well judging taste from above, 
Then, whether embellished or rude, 

'Tis nature alone that we love ; 
The achievements of art may amuse, 

May even our wonder excite, 
But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse 

A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice, 
May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice ! 
To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 



132 orator's own book. 

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 
To wing all her moments at home ; 

And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 

As oft as it suits her to roam ; 

She will have just the life she prefers, 
With little to hope or to fear, 

And ours would be pleasant as hers, 
Might we view her enjoying it here. 



SPEECH OF MR. PHILIPS FOR A GARDENER. 

Gentlemen — I feel to day, that I have much to combat in 
advocating the cause of humble poverty against pampered 
oppression. I have to charge that oppression upon a cha- 
racter where the virtues and the charities of life are pre- 
sumed to dwell : I have to fear also, lest the language 
which I must hold towards the individual, may be miscon- 
strued into any disrespect to his venerated profession : — 
most assuredly I mean no such thing ; but when I find a 
man in lofty station hiding a worldly heart under a religious 
garment, it is my duty to overcome the pain which the ex- 
posure gives me — a duty to the rank such conduct has dis- 
honoured — a duty to the church, thus more endangered by 
its own professors than by all that infidelity can urge against 
it. I shall proceed to detail to you the facts. 

The plaintiff is a poor man living by the labour of his 

hands. The defendant, Mr. is a clergyman of the 

Church of England, of ample fortune, and its useful atten- 
dant, a large establishment. It happened that in October of 
the last year the defendant was employed in the garden of 

Mr. as under-gardener, and on the 2 1st of that month, 

it being Sunday, he dined with his aunt at Camberwell. 
They had a round of corned beef for dinner ; and upon his 
departure, his aunt pressed him to accept a slice of it. He 
accepted it, returned home, and placed it in an open tool-box 
in the garden, the usual depository for the under-gardener's 
dinner. About eleven o'clock, the parson went to take the 
air in his garden ; he proceeded, with the sagacity of an old 
pointer, to the tool-house, and made a dead set upon the 



orator's own book. 133 

poor man's beef, sweeping it at once entire and wholesale 
into his pocket. Out of the doctor's own lips I shall prove 
this ludicrous disposal of the beef. 

He proceeded directly to his house, and dived at once into 
the kitchen: "Follow me," said he to the astonished cook, 
" Follow me into the larder and bring the carving knife with 
you." The cook followed with tremulous apprehension. 
Arrived at the kitchen larder, he cut a measured slice from 
a round of beef with much caution ; performed the like ope- 
ration upon a loaf of bread, and then stalked away without 
uttering a syllable. Next morning the cook received a sum- 
mons to attend his dressing-room : there, spread out in 
state, he showed her the slice he had cut off the round, and 
the beef he had manoeuvred out of the tool-box, so cut to 
match, that you could scarcely distinguish between them. 

" Won't you swear," said the parson, " that these two 
slices are from the same round ?" " It's impossible that I 
can," said the cook. " I can," said the parson ; " here's a 
slice that came off my round ; and I'll swear it did, because 
I found it in the tool-box." " Your round," said the cook, 
" was safe in the larder; the door was locked and the key 
was in my pocket." There was another reason, too, which 
the doctor assigned for claiming the beef, and which, as it 
has at least the mint of originality, I shall mention. Indeed 
he repeated it before a Jury : — " I know the beef to be mine 
from its complexion !" Gentlemen, the next appearance of 
the cook was before a magistrate, where she distinctly swore 
to the utter impossibility of any access to the beef without 
her knowledge, and she solemnly denied that such access 
was ever afforded. 

The cook having failed, the butler was resorted to. The 
parson produced to him the slice from the round, and asked 
him whether it was not his property 1 " No," said the but- 
ler. " Bless me," said the parson, " what a fool you are, 
not to swear to the beef!" He then produced the slice from 
the tool-box. " At all events, Joe, you'll have no hesitation 
in swearing that this and the other came from the same 
round ?" " No," replied Joe, " I'd rather say they did not, 
because the one is much drier than the other." The old 
mathematician, when he solved the problem, and exclaimed, 
eureka ! never felt one-tenth portion of the parson's ecstasy. 
12 



134 orator's own book. 

" It's the same, Joe, it's the same ; it's only drier because I 
carried it in my pocket." 

His next resource, gentlemen, was the plaintiff himself. 
The plaintiff was bewailing the robbery of his dinner, little 
foreseeing he was to be considered a thief; he told at once 
that he got the beef from his aunt at Camberwell ; but the 
parson was not to be satisfied ; nor would he even make en- 
quiry. The man still came to his work ; the parson tor- 
menting him hourly with the same questions. At length 
his patience was exhausted, and he said, as I am told, in the 
presence of the butler—" Sir, I told you the name of my 
aunt and where she lived ; I am ready to prove my inno- 
cence before any tribunal in the world." 

Will you believe, gentlemen, that upon these grounds — 
against the speaking evidence of the man's daily return to 
work — against the oath of his own servants — against com- 
mon sense, merely because he had a cold round in his lar- 
der — this prop of the church, who keeps his lordly mansion, 
his equipage, and his retinue, determined to prosecute this 
helpless peasant on a charge of robbery ! — a charge so laid 
as to subject him to transportation. Did you ever, gentle- 
men, hear of such a case as this ? I remember to have heard 
of one, and but one, which occurred in another country. It 
was not in Ireland, gentlemen, though Mr. Gurney's smil- 
ing would seem to say so. It happened in America about 
fifty years ago. 

Johnny Hook, gentleman, was a Highlander : he lived in 
one of the most economical parts of Scotland, until he ar- 
rived at years of discretion, when, of course, he emigrated. 
He arrived in America about the period of the revolution, 
having brought with him from Scotland a little stout bullock, 
which I dare say he thought an apt emblem of his country- 
men. Patriotism is said to be a hungry quality ; and, un- 
happily for Johnny Hook, the American army encamped in 
the very field where his bullock was grazing. The bullock 
was soon sacrificed to the appetites of the invaders of the 
field, and the setting sun beheld but its last rib in existence. 
At the conclusion of war, Johnny set off from the farm, and 
brought his action against the American commissary-general 
for the price of his bullock. 

The defence was conducted by the inspired peasant, 
Patrick Henry — a name immortal in America, and which 



135 

should never die wherever talent and genius are held in esti- 
mation. He touched the chords of the jurors' hearts ; and 
when he had pictured before them the perils and privations 
which the American army had undergone, the achievements 
and victories they had obtained, he exclaimed, with a feeling 
that soon became contagious — " But who is this man that 
disturbs a nation's devotion, and, at the very moment when 
they are, with uplifted hands, returning thanks to the God 
of battles, exclaims, beef, beef, beef!" In America, the 
name of Johnny Hook will never die ; genius has touched it, 
and made it immortal ; — but what was Johnny Hook when 
contrasted with this parson? — as a candle to the sun. For 
what will you say when I tell you, that, after taking three 
whole days to deliberate — though the poor man returned to 
his garden, to his daily work, as usual — he actually had him 
arrested on a charge of felony ! 

And who was the magistrate before whom he brought 
him? A serjeant-at-law, his own father-in-law! The son- 
in-law accused, and the father-in-law committed him ; and 
indeed they were right not to let the glory of the achieve- 
ment go out of the family. Imagine, gentlemen, you behold 
the spectacle : the parson swearing to the complexion of the 
pennyworth ; the butler endeavouring to coax him into rea- 
son ; the cook maintaining the inviolability of the larder ; 
the serjeant threatening to bundle her out of the office ; until 
at last, amid the babel of the contest, and the alternate as- 
cendancy of " beef!" " Church !" "Newgate!" and" Botany 
Bay !" he was confined to five hours' imprisonment by these 
twin ornaments of law and divinity. At length his friends 
heard of his situation ; he was then necessarily admitted to 
bail, and bound over to meet his charitable " pastor and 
master" at the sessions. 

J_jet us pause here, gentlemen, and reflect on the situation 
of my client during the interval. Turned out of his service 
on a charge of robbery — that robbery the robbery of his 
own master — unable to procure employment under the doubt 
— obliged to expend the last shilling of his little savings, 
amounting to 20Z., in preparations for his defence — with 
many weeks before his innocence could be vindicated, and 
with the certainty that, even in the case of an acquittal, the 
fact of his having been tried would cling to him for ever : — 
weigh these sufferings of a poor man and an honest man, 



136 orator's own book. 

and then say what a rich man and a guilty man should pay 
for their infliction. 

At length the long expected sessions came : at ten, to a 
moment, the parson was in attendance ; day after day he 
missed not a minute ; and at least for half their period, upon 
the steps of the prison-house, was this sleek emblem of 
orthodoxy to be seen, elbowing the thieves and convicts as 
they passed, and piously preparing to add an innocent man 
to their number. He was saved all trouble in procuring his 
attendance ; he surrendered himself at once ; not attended 
merely by his bail, but by the indignant crowds who had 
known him from his infancy, and who now pressed forward 
to attest the industrious honesty of his life. The cause was 
called on ; and without compunction did this reverend cler- 
gyman, upon no other grounds except these I have stated, 
depose to a charge of felony against my client. 

Gentlemen, I need scarcely tell you the result of the pro- 
secution. The prosecutor swore, as might have been ex- 
pected, to the identity of the beef — to the identity of the 
bread — and after establishing his full claim to the penny- 
worth, he called up his household to corroborate him, One 
of them has been turned out of his service since ; the other 
has a second opportunity to day. What they swore then, I 
take it for granted they will swear now ; and if they do, I 
defy any man of conscience to say that this man had proba- 
ble grounds for this prosecution, recollecting, as you will, 
that all was communicated to him before the sessions ; nay, 
before the arrest. The jury rose indignantly, interposing 
between the accused and the mortification of a defence — he 
was at once acquitted. The trial over, my client and his 
prosecutor both departed, the one to his lordly mansion, the 
other to his home of desolation. 

The day of retribution, however, is at last arrived ; and 
at your honest hands I confidently claim it. I claim it not 
merely for expenses incurred — for imprisonment endured — 
for character involved — for oppression exercised — but I 
claim it, in addition for the agony of mind which the plain- 
tiff must have suffered, when he saw himself attainted before 
the world as a felon. Gentlemen of the jury, I shall leave 
this case to you: if you think that innocence should be ac- 
cused, character involved, expense accumulated, imprison- 
ment endured, and felony imputed, upon grounds like these-*-— 



Orator's own book. 137 

dismiss my client ; but if you hold probity in respect, though 
clothed in rags, and oppression in dishonour, though it be 
robed in lawn, I call on you to say so by your conscientious 
verdict. 



MIRABEAU S FUNERAL ORATION ON THE DEATH OF DR. 
FRANKLIN. 

Gentlemen— Franklin is dead. The genius which deli- 
vered America, and poured such floods of light upon Europe, 
has returned to the bosom of God. The sage whom both 
worlds claim as their own, whose name is recorded with 
equal honour in the history of government, and that of 
science, is justly entitled to be reckoned among those who 
have done the greatest honour to our species. 

It has long been the practice of courts to inform each 
other of the decease of individuals who were only great in 
funeral orations, and to notice these events by formal mourn- 
ings. But nations should mourn for none but their benefac- 
tors ; and their representatives should recommend to their 
attention and regret none but the heroes of humanity. 

The congress has ordered a mourning of two months for 
the death of Franklin, through the fourteen United States ; 
and America is now paying this tribute of respect to one of 
her political fathers. 

Would it not become us, gentlemen, to join in this pious 
act, to take a part in this public homage to the rights of 
man, and to the philosopher, who has contributed more than 
any other to ensure their acknowledgment through the 
world. Antiquity would have raised altars to this mighty 
genius, who Compassed earth and sky to accomplish his 
benevolent objects — who mastered the bolt of heaven and the 
sceptre of tyranny. Our free and enlightened country, 
owes, at least, some mark of recollection and regret, to one 
of the greatest men that ever served the cause of philosophy 
and freedom. 

I propose that the National Assembly wear mourning 
three days for the death of Benjamin Franklin. 
12* 



138 orator's own book. 



EXTRACT FROM MR. PITT'S SPEECH IN THE BRITISH PARLIA- 
MENT, IN PRAISE OF THE CONGRESS AT PHILADELPHIA. 

When your lordships look at the papers transmitted to us 
from America ; when you consider their decency, firmness, 
and wisdom, you cannot but respect their cause, and wish to 
make it your own. For myself, I must declare and avow, 
that in all my reading and observation, (and it has been my 
favourite study ; I have read Thucydides, and have studied 
and admired the master states of the world ;) I say I must 
declare, that, for solidity of reasoning, force of sagacity,, 
and wisdom of conclusion, under such a complication of dif- 
ficult circumstances, no nation, or body of men, can stand 
in preference to the general congress of Philadelphia. I 
trust it is obvious to your lordships, that all attempts to im- 
pose servitude upon such men, to establish despotism over 
such a mighty continental nation, must be vain, must be 
fatal. 

We shall be forced, ultimately, to retract ; let us retract 
while we can, not when we must, I say we must necessa- 
rily undo these violent oppressive acts. They must be re- 
pealed. You will repeal them. I pledge myself for it, 
that you will in the end repeal them. I stake my reputa- 
tion on it. I will consent to be taken for an idiot, if they 
are not finally repealed. 

Avoid, then, this humiliating, disgraceful necessity. With 
a dignity becoming your exalted situation, make the first 
advances to concord, to peace and happiness : for it is your 
true dignity to act with prudence and justice. That you 
should first concede, is obvious from sound and rational po- 
licy. Concession comes with better grace and more salu- 
tary effects from superior power ; it reconciles superiority of 
power with the feelings of men ; and establishes solid confi- 
dence on the foundations of affection and gratitude. 

Every motive, therefore, of justice and of policy, of dig- 
nity and of prudence, urges you to allay the ferment in Ame- 
rica, by a removal of your troops from Boston ; by a repeal 
of your acts of parliament; and by demonstration of amica- 
ble dispositions towards your colonies. On the other hand, 
every danger and every hazard impend, to deter you from 
perseverance in your present ruinous measures. Foreign 



139 

war hanging over your heads by a slight and brittle thread ; 
France and Spain watching your conduct, and waiting for 
the maturity of your errors; with a vigilant eye to America, 
and the temper of your colonies, more than to their own con- 
cerns, be they what they may. 

To conclude, my lords ; if the ministers thus persevere in 
misadvising and misleading the king, I will not say that 
they can alienate the affections of his subjects from his 
crown ; but I will affirm, that they will make the crown 
not worth his wearing: I will not say that the king is be- 
trayed ; but I will pronounce, that the kingdom is undone. 



BEPLY OF MR. PITT, (THE LATE EARL OF CHATHAM,) TO THE 
CHARGE OF YOUTHFUL INEXPERIENCE, AND THEATRICAL 
ANIMATION. 

This illustrious father of English oratory, having ex- 
pressed himself in the house of commons,, with his accus- 
tomed energy, in opposition to one of the measures then in 
agitation, his speech produced an answer from Mr. Wal- 
pole, who, in the course of it, said, " Formidable sounds, 
and furious declamation, confident assertions, and lofty pe- 
riods, may affect the young and inexperienced ; and per- 
haps, the honourable gentleman may have contracted his 
habits of oratory by conversing more with those of his own 
age, than with such as have had more opportunities of ac- 
quiring knowledge, and more successful methods of commu- 
nicating their sentiments.' 1 And he made use of some 
expressions, such as vehemence of gesture, theatrical emo- 
tion, Sfc. applying them to Mr. PitVs manner of speaking. 
As soon as Mr. Walpole sat down, Mr. Pitt get up and 
replied : 

The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the 
honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency- 
charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor 
deny : but content myself with wishing — that I may be one 
of those whose follies cease with their youth ; and not of that 
number who are ignorant in spite of experience. 

Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, 
I will not assume the province of determining ; but surely 



140 ORATOR^S OWN BOOK. 

age may become justly contemptible, — if the opportunities 
which it brings have passed away without improvement, and 
vice appears to prevail when the passions have subsided. 
The wretch that, after having seen the consequences of a 
thousand errors, continues still to blunder, — and whose age 
has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object 
of either abhorrence or contempt ; and deserves not that his 
gray head should secure him from insults. Much more is 
he to be abhorred — who, as he has advanced in age, has 
receded from virtue, and becomes more wicked with less 
temptation : who prostitutes himself for money which he 
cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin 
of his country. 

But youth is not my only crime. I have been accused of 
acting a theatrical part. 

. A theatrical part, may either imply — some peculiarities 
of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, and 
the adoption of the opinions and language of another man. 

In the first sense, the charge is too trifling to be confuted ; 
and deserves only to be mentioned that it may be despised. 
I am at liberty (like every other man) to use my own lan- 
guage : and though I may, perhaps, have some ambition, — 
yet to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under 
any restraint, or very solicitously copy his diction, or his 
mien ; however matured by age, or modeled by experience. 
If any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour, 
imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat 
him as a calumniator and a villain : nor shall any protection 
shelter him from the treatment which he deserves. I shall, 
on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those 
forms with which wealth and dignity entrench themselves ; 
nor shall any thing but age restrain my resentment : age, 
which always brings one privilege — that of being insolent 
and supercilious without punishment. 

But, with regard to those whom I have offended, I am 
of opinion — that, if I had acted a borrowed part, I should 
have avoided their censure. The heat that offended them 
is the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of 
my country, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me 
to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is 
invaded ; nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will 
exert my endeavours (at whatever hazard) to repel the ag- 



ORATOR'S OWN BOOK. 141 

gressor and drag the thief to justice — what power soever 
may protect the villany, and whoever may partake of the 
plunder. 



KING JAMES AND RHODERIC DHU. Lady of the Lake. 

Scene. — A rock, with a watch-fire burning near it. A 
Scoiish Highlander, icrappcd in his tartan, is discovered 
sleeping by it. Enter King James, in a warriors dress. 

Soldier, [grasping his sword and springing upon his 
feet.] Thy name and purpose, Saxon ? — stand ! 

James. A stranger. 

Sold. What dost thou require? 

James. Rest and a guide, and food and fire. 
My life's beset, my path is lost, 
The gale has chilled my limbs with frost. 

Sold. Art thou a friend to Rhoderic ? 

James. No. 

Sold. Thou durst not call thyself his foe ? 

James. I dare, to him and all the band 
He brings to aid his murderous hand. 

Sold. Bold words ! But, though the beast of game 
The privilege of chase may claim ; 
Though space and law the stag we lend, 
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, 
Who ever cared, where, how, or when 
The prowling fox was trapped or slain 1 
Thus treacherous scouts — yet sure they lie, 
Who say thou com'st a secret spy. 

James. They do, by heav'n ! Come Rhoderic Dhu, 
And of his clan the boldest two, 
And let me but till morning rest, 
I'll write the falsehood on their crest. 

Sold. If by the blaze I mark aright, 
Thou bear'st the belt and spur of knight. 

James. Then by these tokens may'st thou know 
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe. 

Sold. Enough, enough ; sit down and share 
A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare. 

[They sit down and eat together, and in a few moments the 
soldier continues the conversation.] 



142 orator's own eook. 

Sold. Stranger, I am to Rhoderic Dhu 
A clansman born, a kinsman true ; 
Each word against his honour spoke 
Demands of me avenging stroke. 
It rests with me to wind my horn, 
Thou art with numbers overborne ; 
It rests with me, here, brand to brand, 
Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand ; 
But not for clan, nor kindred's cause, 
Will I depart from honour's laws. 
To assail a wearied man were shame, 
And Stranger is a holy name. 
Guidance and rest, and food and fire 
In vain he never must require-. 
Myself will guide thee on the way, 
Through watch and ward till break of day, 
As far as Coilantogle ford ; 
From thence thy warrant is thy sword. 

James. I take thy courtesy, by Heaven ; 
As freely as 'tis nobly given. 

Sold. Why seek these wilds, traversed by few, 
Without a pass from Rhoderic Dhu ? 

James. Brave man, my pass in danger tried, 
Hangs in my belt, and by my side. 
Yet sooth to tell, though nought I dread, 
I dreamed not now to claim its aid. 
When here but three days since I came, 
Bewildered in pursuit of game, 
All seemed as peaceful and as still, 
As the mist slumbering on yon hill. 
Thy dangerous chief was then afar, 
Nor soon expected back from war ; 
Thus, said, at least, my mountain guide, 
Tho' deep, perchance, the villain lied. 

Sold. Yet, why a second venture try ? 

James. A warrior thou, and ask me why, 
Perhaps I sought to drive away 
The lazy hours of peaceful day ; 
Slight cause will then suffice to guide 
A knight's free footsteps far and wide ; 
A falcon flown, a grey-hound strayed, 
The merry glance of mountain maid ; 



orator's own book. 143 

Or, if a path be dangerous known, 
The danger's self is lure alone. 

Sold. Thy secret keep ; I urge thee not, 
Yet, ere again you sought this spot, 
Say, heard you not of lowland war, 
Against Clan Alpine raised by Mar ? 

James. No, by my word ; of bands prepared 
To guard king James's sports I heard ; 
Nor doubt I aught, but when they hear 
This muster of the mountaineer, 
Their pennons will abroad be flung, 
Which else in Doune had peaceful hung. 

Sold. Free be they flung ! for we are loth 
Their silken folds should feed the moth. 
Free be they flung ! as free shall wave 
Clan Alpine's pine in banner brave. 
But, stranger, peaceful since you came, 
Bewildered in the mountain game, 
Whence the bold boast by which we know 
Vich Alpine's vowed and mortal foe 1 

James. Warrior, but yester morn, I knew 
Nought of thy chieftain, Rhoderic Dhu, 
Save as an exil'd, desperate man, 
The chief of a rebellious clan, 
Who in the regent's court and sight, 
With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight. 
Yet this alone should from his part 
Sever each true and loyal heart. 

Sold. [Frowning, and both rising hastily.] 

And heard'st thou why he drew his blade ? 
Heard'st thou, that shameful word and blow 
Brought Rhoderic's vengeance on his foe ? 
What recked the chieftain, if he stood 
On Highland heath or Holy Rood ? 
He rights such wrong where it is given, 
Though it were in the court of heaven. 

James. Still it was outrage : yet, 'tis true, 
Not then claimed sovereignty his due, 
The young king mewed in Stirling tower, 
Was stranger to respect and power. 
But then thy chieftain's robber life, 
Winning mean prey by causeless strife, 



144 orator's own book. 

Wrenching from ruined lowland swain 
His flocks and harvest reared in vain — 
Methinks, a soul, like thine, should scorn 
The spoils from such foul conflict borne. 

Sold. Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
I marked thee send delighted eye, 
O'er waving fields and pastures green, 
With gentle slopes, and groves between ; 
These fertile plains, that softened vale, 
Were once the birthright of the Gael. 
The Saxons came with iron hand, 
And from our fathers reft the land. 
Where dwell we now 1 see rudely swell 
Crag o'er crag, and fell o'er fell. 
Ask we this savage hill we tread, 
For fattened steer, or household bread ; 
Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 
And well the mountain might reply, 
" To you as to your sires of yore, 
Belong the target and claymore ! 
I give you shelter in my breast, 
Your own good blades must do the rest." 
Pent in this fortress of the north, 
Think'st thou we will not sally forth 
To spoil the spoiler as we may. 
And from the robber rend the prey 1 
Ay, by my soul ! while on yon plain 

The Saxon rears one shock of grain 

While often thousand herds, there strays 
But one along yon river's maze — 
The Gael, of plain and river heir, 
Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share. 
Where live the mountain chiefs, who hold 
That plundering lowland field and fold 
Is ought but retribution due 1 — 
Seek other cause 'gainst Rlioderic Dhu. 

James. And if I sought, 

Thinkst thou no other could be brought ? 
What deem ye, of my path way -laid, 
My life given o'er to ambuscade ? 

Sold. As a reward to rashness due ; 
Hadst thou sent warning, fair and true, 



orator's own book. 145 

Free hadst thou been to come and go ; 
But secret path marks secret foe. 

James. Well, let it pass ; nor will I now 
Fresh cause of enmity avow, 
To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. 
Enough, I am by promise tied 
To match me with this man of pride. 
Twice have I sought Clan Alpine's glen 
In peace ; but when I come again, 
I come with banner, brand, and bow, 
As leader seeks his mortal foe. 
For love-born swain, in lady's bower, 
Ne'er panted for the appointed hour 
As I, until before me stand 
This rebel chieftain and his band. 

Sold. Have then thy wish. [He whistles, and soldiers 
rush in on all sides.~\ How say'st thou now ? 
These are Clan Alpine's warriors true ; 

And Saxon 1 am Rhoderic Dhu. 

[King James starts back a little, then draws his sword and 
places his hack against the rock.] 

James. Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
From its firm base as soon as I. 

[Rhoderic waves his hand, and the soldiers retire.'} 

Rhod. Fear not, nay, that I need not say, 
But doubt not aught from mine array. 
Thou art my guest, I pledged my word 
As far as Coilantogle ford. 
So move we on ; I only meant 
To show the reed on which you leant, 
Deeming this path you might pursue 
Without a pass from Rhoderic Dhu. 
Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 
Vich Alpine shall discharge his trust. 
This murderous chief, this ruthless man, 
This head of a rebellious clan, 
Will lead thee safe through watch and ward, 
Far past Clan Alpine's outmost guard ; 
Then man to man, and steel to steel, 
A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 

James. 1 ne'er delayed 

When foeman bade me draw my blade ; 
13 



146 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

Nay more, brave chief, I vowed thy death ; 
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, 
And my deep debt for life preserved 
A better meed have well deserved ; 
Can nought but blood our feud atone? 
Are there no means 1 

Rhod. — — No stranger, none ! 

James. Nay, first to James at Stirling go. 
When if thou wilt be still his foe, 
Or if the king shall not agree 
To grant thee grace and favour free, 
I plight mine honour, oath, and word, 
That to thy native holds restored, 
With each advantage shalt thou stand, 
That aids thee now to guard thy land. 

Rhod. Thy rash presumption now shall rue, 
The homage named to Rhoderic Dhu. 
He yields not, he, to man nor fate — 
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate ! 
My clansmen's wrongs demand revenge. 
Not yet prepared ! by Heaven, I change 
My thought, and hold thy valour light 
As that of some vain carpet knight, 
Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
And whose best boast is but to wear 

A braid of his fair lady's hair. [Pointing to a braid on 
James's breast.'] 

James. I thank thee, Rhoderic, for the word ; 
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; 
I had it from a frantic maid 
By thee dishonoured and betrayed ; 
And I have sworn the braid to stain 
In the best blood that warms thy vein. 
Now truce, farewell ! and ruth, be gone ! 
1 heed not that my strength is worn — 
Thy word's restored ; and if thou wilt, 
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt. 



orator's own book. 147 



GREECE. — Byron. 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 

Ere the first day of death is fled, 

The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress, 

(Before decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 

And marked the mild angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that's there, 

The fixed yet tender traits that streak 

The languor of the placid cheek, 

And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 

And but for that chill, changeless brow, 

Where cold obstruction's apathy 

Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 

Yes, but for these and these alone, 

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 

He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 

So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, 

The first last look by death revealed ! 

Such is the aspect of this shore ; 

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 

We start, for soul is wanting there. 

Hers is the loveliness in death, 

That parts not quite with parting breath ; 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That hue which haunts it to the tomb ; 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay, 

The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth ! 



148 ORATOlt's OWN BOOK. 



EXTRACT FROM MR. MADISON S SPEECH ON THE FEDERAL 
CONSTITUTION. 

Mi\ Speaker, — It is urged, that the consolidated nature 
of the federal constitution, joined to the power of direct tax- 
ation, will give it a tendency to destroy all subordinate 
authority ; that its increasing influence will speedily enable 
it to absorb the state governments. I cannot bring myself 
to think that this will be the case. If the general govern- 
ment were wholly independent of the governments of the 
particular states, then, indeed, usurpation might be expected 
to the fullest extent : but, sir, on whom does this general 
government depend ? It derives its authority from these 
governments, and from the same sources from which their 
authority is derived. The members of the federal govern- 
ment are taken from the same men from whom those of the 
state legislatures are taken. If we consider the mode in 
which the federal representatives will be chosen, we shall 
be convinced that the general will never destroy the indivi- 
dual governments ; and this conviction must be strengthened 
by an attention to the construction of the senate. 

The representatives will be chosen, probably, under the 
influence of the members of the state legislatures : but there 
is not the least probability that the election of the latter will 
be influenced by the former. One hundred and sixty mem- 
bers representing this commonwealth in one branch of the 
legislature, are drawn from the people at large, and must 
ever possess more influence than the few men who will be 
elected to the general legislature. Those who wish to be- 
come federal representatives, must depend on their credit 
with that class of men who will be the most popular in their 
counties, who generally represent the people in the state 
governments : they can, therefore, never succeed in any 
measure contrary to the wishes of those on whom they 
depend. So that on the whole, it is almost certain, that the 
deliberations of the members of the federal house of repre- 
sentatives, will be directed to the interests of the people of 
America. 

As to the other branch, the senators will be appointed by 
the legislatures, and though elected for six years, 1 do not 
conceive they will so soon forget the source from whence 
they derived their political existence. This election of one 



orator's own book. 1 49 

branch of the federal, by the state legislatures, secures an 
absolute dependence of the former on the latter. The bien- 
nial exclusion of one third will lessen the facility of a com- 
bination, and preclude all likelihood of intrigues. I appeal 
to our past experience, whether they will attend to the inte- 
rests of their constituent states. Have not those gentlemen 
who have been honoured with seats in congress, often sig- 
nalised themselves by their attachment to their states ? Sir, 
I pledge myself that this government will answer the ex- 
pectations of its friends, and foil the apprehensions of its 
enemies. 



THE POPLAR FIELD. Cowper. 

The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade, 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer, nor sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew ; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, 
And the scene, where his melody charmed me before, 
Resounds with his sweet flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can, 
To muse on the perishing nature of man ; 
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments I see, 
Have a being less durable even than he. 

Mr. Cowper afterwards altered the last stanza in the following manner , 
The change both my heart and my fancy employs, 
I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys ; 
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 
13* 



150 



INTERVIEW BETWEEN WAVERLY AND FERGUS MAC-IVOR, AT 
CARLISLE, PREVIOUS TO THE EXECUTION OF THE LAT- 
TER. Waller Scolt. 

After a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found 
Waverly on the esplanade in front of the old Gothic gate of 
Carlisle castle. But he paced it long in every direction, 
before the hour when, according to the rules of the garri- 
son, the gates were opened, and the drawbridge lowered. 
He produced his order to the sergeant of the guard, and 
was admitted. The place of Fergus' confinement was a 
gloomy and vaulted apartment in the central part of the 
castle I a huge old tower, supposed to be of great antiquity, 
and surrounded by out- works, seemingly of Henry VIII's 
time, or somewhat later. The grating of the huge old- 
fashioned bars and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of ad- 
mitting Edward, was answered by the clash of chains, as 
the unfortunate chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered, 
shuffled along the stone floor of his prison, to fling himself 
into his friend's arms. 

" My dear Edward," he said, in a firm and even cheerful 
voice, " this is truly kind. I heard of your approaching 
happiness with the highest pleasure ; and how does Rose ? 
and how is our old whimsical friend the baron 1 Well, I am 
sure, from your looks — and how will you settle precedence 
between the three ermines passant, and the bear and boot- 
jack V " How, O how, my dear Fergus, can you talk of 
such things at such a moment ?" — " Why, we have entered 
Carlisle with happier auspices, to be true — on the 16th of 
November last, for example, when we marched in, side by 
side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. 
But I am no boy, to sit down and weep because the luck 
has gone against me. I knew the stake which I risked ; 
we played the game boldly, and the forfeit shall be paid 
manfully. 

" You are rich," he continued, " Waverly, and you are 
generous. When you hear of these poor Mac-Ivors being 
distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh 
overseer or agent of government, remember you have worn 
their tartan, and are an adopted son of their race. The 
baron, who knows our manners, and lives near our country, 
will apprise you of the time and means to be their protector, 



151 

Will you promise this to the last Vich Ian Vohr?" — Ed- 
ward, as may well be believed, pledged his word ; which 
afterwards he so amply redeemed, that his memory still 
lives in these glens by the name of the Friend of the Sons 
of Ivor. — " Would to God," continued the chieftain, " I 
could bequeath to you my 'rights to the love and obedience 
of this primitive and brave race : or at least as I have striven 
to do, persuade poor Evan to accept of his life upon their 
terms ; and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest 
— the bravest— the most devoted — ? ' 

The tears which his own fate could not draw forth, fell 
fast for that of his foster-brother. " But," said he, drying 
them, " that cannot be. You cannot be to them Vich Ian 
Vohr ; and these three magic words," said he half smiling, 
64 are the only Open Sesame to their feelings and sympa- 
thies; and poor Evan must attend his foster-brother in 
death, as he has done through his whole life." — " And I 
am sure," said Maccombich, raising himself from the floor, 
on which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had 
lain so still, that, in the obscurity of the apartment, Edward 
was not aware of his presence,—" I am sure Evan never 
desired nor deserved a better end than just to die with his 
chieftain." 

A tap at the door now announced the arrival of the priest ; 
and Edward retired while he administered to both prisoners 
the last rites of religion, in the mode which the church of 
Rome prescribes. In about an hour he was readmitted. 
Soon after, a file of soldiers entered with a blacksmith, who 
struck the fetters from the legs of the prisoners. " You see 
the compliment they pay to our Highland strength and 
courage ; we have lain chained here like wild beasts, till 
our legs are cramped into palsy ; and when they free us, 
they send six soldiers with loaded muskets to prevent our 
taking the castle by storm." 

Shortly after the drums of the garrison beat to arms. 
" This is the last turn out," said Fergus, " that I shall hear 
and obey. And now, my dear, dear Edward, ere we part, 
let us speak of Flora, — a subject which awakes the tenderest 
feeling that yet thrills within me." — " We part not here?" 
said Waverly. " O yes, we do, you must come no farther. 
Not that I fear what is to follow for myself," he said proudly ; 
" nature has her tortures as well as art, and how happy 



152 orator's own book. 

should we think the man who escapes from the throes of a 
mortal and painful disorder in the space of a short half 
hour ! And this matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last 
longer. But what a dying man can suffer firmly, may kill 
a living friend look upon. 

" This same law of high treason," he continued, with 
astonishing firmness and composure, " is one of the bless- 
ings, Edward, with which your free country has accommo- 
dated poor old Scotland : her own jurisprudence, as I have 
heard, was much milder. But I suppose, one day or other, 
when there are no longer any wild Highlanders to benefit 
by its tender mercies, they will blot it from their records, 
as leveling them with a nation of cannibals. The mum- 
mery, too, of exposing the senseless head ! they have not 
the wit to grace mine with a paper coronet ; there would 
be some satire in that, Edward. I hope they will set it on 
the Scotish gate though, that I may look, even after death, 
to the blue hills of my own country, that I love so dearly !" 

A bustle, and the sound of wheels and horses 1 feet, was 
now heard in the court-yard of the castle. An officer ap- 
peared, and intimated that the high sheriff and his attend- 
ants waited before the gate of the castle, to claim the bodies 
of Fergus Mac-Ivor and Evan Maccombich : " I come," 
said Fergus. Accordingly, supporting Edward by the arm, 
and followed by Evan Dhu and the priest, he moved down 
the stairs of the tower, the soldiers bringing up the rear. 
The court was occupied by a squadron of dragoons and a 
battalion of infantry, drawn up in a hollow square. 

Within their ranks was the sledge or hurdle, on which 
the prisoners were to be drawn to the place of execution, 
about a mile distant from Carlisle. It was painted black, 
and drawn by a white horse. At one end of the vehicle sat 
the executioner, a horrid looking fellow, as beseemed his 
trade, with a broad axe in his hand ; at the other end, next 
the horse, was an empty seat for two persons. Through 
the deep and dark Gothic archway that opened on the 
drawbridge, were seen on horseback the high sheriff and 
his attendants, whom the etiquette betwixt the civil and 
military power did not permit to come farther. " This is 
well got up for a closing scene," said Fergus, smiling dis- 
dainfully as he gazed around upon the apparatus of terror* 
Evan Dhu exclaimed with some eagerness, after looking at 



orator's own book. 153 

the dragoons, " These are the very chields that galloped off 
at Gladsmuir, ere we could kill a dozen of them. They 
look bold enough, however." The priest entreated him to 
be silent. 

The sledge now approached, and Fergus turning round 
embraced Waverly, kissed him on each side of the face, 
and stepped nimbly into his place. Evan sat down by his 
side. The priest was to follow in a carriage belonging to 
his patron, the catholic gentleman at whose house Flora 
resided. As Fergus waved his hand to Edward, the ranks 
closed around the sledge, and the whole procession began 
to move forward. 

There was a momentary stop at the gateway, while the 
governor of the castle and the high sheriff went through a 
short ceremony, the military officer there delivering over 
the persons of the criminals to the civil power. " God save 
King George !" said the high sheriff. When the formality 
concluded, Fergus stood erect in the sledge, and with a firm 
and steady voice, replied, " God save King James !" These 
were the last words which Waverly heard him speak. 

The procession resumed its march, and the sledge vanished 
from beneath the portal, under which it had stopped for an 
instant. The dead march, as it is called, was instantly 
heard ; and its melancholy sounds were mingled with those 
of a muffled peal, tolled from the neighbouring cathedral. 
The sound of the military music died away as the proces- 
sion moved on ; the sullen clang of the bells was soon heard 
to sound alone. 

The last of the soldiers had now disappeared from undei* 
the vaulted archway through which they had been filing 
for several minutes ; the court -yard was now totally empty, 
but Waverly still stood there as if stupified, his eyes fixed 
upon the dark pass where he had so lately seen the last 
glimpse of his friend. At length, a female servant of the 
governor, struck with surprise and compassion at the stupi- 
fied misery which his countenance expressed, asked him if 
he would not walk into her master's house and sit down ? 
She was obliged to repeat her question twice ere he com- 
prehended her : but at length it recalled him to himself. 
Declining the courtesy, by a hasty gesture, he pulled his 
hat over his eyes, and, leaving the castle, walked as swiftly 
as he could through the empty streets, till he regained his 



154 orator's own book. 

inn ; then threw himself into an apartment and bolted the 
door. 

In about an hour and a half, which seemed an age of 
unutterable suspense, the sound of the drums and fifes, per- 
forming a lively air, and the confused murmur of the crowd 
which now filled the streets, so lately deserted, apprised 
him that all was over, and that the military and populace 
were returning from the dreadful scene. I will not attempt 
to describe his sensations. 



DEATH OP MORRIS, THE SPY. Walter Scott .* 

I shall never forget the delightful sensation with which 
I exchanged the dark, smoky, smothering atmosphere of 
the Highland hut, in which we had passed the night so un- 
comfortably, for the refreshing fragrance of the morning 
air, and the glorious beams of the rising sun, which, from a 
tabernacle of purple and golden clouds, were darted full on 
such a scene of natural romance and beauty as had never 
before greeted my eyes. To the left lay the valley, down 
which the Forth wandered on its easterly course, surround- 
ing the beautiful detached hill, with all its garland of woods. 

On the right, amid a profusion of thickets, knolls, and 
crags, lay the bed of a broad mountain lake, lightly curling 
into tiny waves by the breath of the morning breeze, each 
glittering in its course under the influence of the sunbeams. 
High hills, rocks and banks, waving with natural forests of 
birch and oak, formed the borders of this enchanting sheet 
of water ; and, as their leaves rustled to the wind and 
twinkled in the sun, gave to the depth of solitude a sort of 
life and vivacity. Man alone seemed to be placed in a 
state of inferiority, in a scene where all the ordinary fea- 
tures of nature were raised and exalted. 

It was under the burning influence of revenge that the 
wife of MacGregor commanded that the hostage, exchanged 

* At the time the celebrated Highland chieftain, Rob Roy, was taken 
prisoner, Morris had been sent as a hostage for his personal safety, 
which being violated excited the wrath so powerfully described in 
this extract. 



155 

for her husband's safety, should be brought into her pre- 
sence. I believe her sons had kept this unfortunate wretch 
out of her sight, for fear of the consequences ; but if it was 
so, their humane precaution only postponed his fate. They 
dragged forward, at her summons, a wretch, already half 
dead with terror, in whose agonised features, I recognised, 
to my horror and astonishment, my old acquaintance, Morris. 

He fell prostrate before the female chief with an effort to 
clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch 
had been pollution, so that all he could do in token of the 
extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss the hem of her 
plaid. I never heard entreaties for life poured forth with 
such agony of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was such, that 
instead of paralysing his tongue, as on ordinary occasions, 
it even rendered him eloquent, and with cheeks as pale as 
ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes that seemed to be 
taking their last look of all mortal objects, he protested, 
with the deepest oaths, his total ignorance of any design on 
the life of Rob Roy, whom he swore he loved and honoured 
as his own soul. 

In the inconsistency of his terror, he said he was but the 
agent of others, and he muttered the name of Rashleigh. 
He prayed but for life — for life he would give all he had in 
the world ; it was but life he asked — -life, if it were to be 
prolonged under tortures and privations; — he asked only 
breath, though it should be drawn in the damps of the 
lowest caverns of their hills. 

It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and 
contempt, with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this 
wretched petitioner for the poor boon of existence. 

" I could have bid you live," she said, " had life been to 
you the same weary and wasting burden that it is to me — 
that it is to every noble and generous mind. But you — 
wretch ! you could creep through the world unaffected by 
its various disgraces, its ineffable miseries, its constantly 
accumulating masses of crime and sorrow, — you could live 
and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded are betrayed, — 
while nameless and birthless villains tread on the neck of 
the brave and long-descended, — you could enjoy yourself, 
like a butcher's dog in the shambles, battening on garbage, 
while the slaughter of the brave went on around you! This 
enjoyment you shall not live to partake of,- you shall die, 



156 orator's own book. 

base dog, and that before yon cloud has passed over the 
sun." 

She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, 
two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hur- 
ried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. 
He set up the most piercing and dreadful cries that fear 
ever uttered — I may well term them dreadful, for they 
haunted my sleep for years afterwards. As the murderers, 
or executioners, call them as you will, dragged him along, 
he recognised me even in that moment of horror, and ex- 
claimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, 
" O, Mr. Osbaldistone, save me — save me !" 

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, al- 
though in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did 
attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have been ex- 
pected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The vic- 
tim was held fast by some, while others, binding a large 
heavy stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others 
again eagerly stripped him of some part of his dress. Half- 
naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him into the lake, 
there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death-shriek 
with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, how- 
ever, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. 

The heavy burden splashed in the dark-blue waters of 
the lake, and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and 
swords, watched an instant, to guard, lest, extricating him- 
self from the load to which he was attached, he might have 
struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been se- 
curely bound ; the victim sunk without effort ; the waters, 
which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, and 
the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, 
was for ever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 157 



ORATION, 

SPOKEN BY PERICLES, AT THE FUNERAL OF THOSE ATHENIANS, 
WHO HAD BEEN FIRST KILLED IN THE PELOPONNESIAN 
WAR. Thucy elides. 

Many of those who have spoken before me on occasions 
of this kind, have commended the author of that law which 
we are now obeying, for having instituted an oration to 
the honour of those who sacrifice their lives in fighting for 
their country. For my part, I think it sufficient for men 
who have approved their virtues in action, by action to be 
honoured for it — by such as you see the public gratitude 
now performing about this funeral ; and that the virtues of 
many ought not to be endangered by the management of 
any one person when their credit must precariously depend 
on his oration, which may be good, and may be bad. Diffi- 
cult indeed it is judiciously to handle a subject, where even 
probable truth will hardly gain assent. The hearer, enlight- 
ened by a long acquaintance, and warm in his affections may 
quickly pronounce every thing unfavourably expressed in 
respect to what he wishes and what he knows ; whilst the 
stranger pronounceth all exaggerated, through envy of those 
deeds which he is conscious are above his own achievement. 
For the praises bestowed on others are then only to be 
endured, when men imagine they can do those feats they 
hear to have been done ; they envy what they cannot equal, 
and immediately pronounce it false. Yet, as this solemnity 
has received its sanction from authority of our ancestors, it 
is my duty also to obey the law, and to endeavour to pro- 
cure, so far as I am able, the good-will and approbation of all 
my audience. 

I shall therefore begin first with our forefathers, since 
both justice and decency require we should, on this occa- 
sion, bestow on them an honourable remembrance. In this 
our country they kept themselves always firmly settled; 
and, through their valour, handed it down free to every 
since succeeding generation. Worthy, indeed, of praise are 
they, and yet more worthy are our immediate fathers ; since, 
enlarging their own inheritance into the extensive empire 
which we now possess, they bequeathed that, their work of 
toil, to us their sons. Yet even these successes, we our- 
14 



158 orator's own book. 

selves, here present, we who are yet in the strength and 
vigour of our days, have nobly improved, and have made 
such provisions for this our Athens, that now it is all-suffi- 
cient in itself to answer every exigence of war and of peace. 
I mean not here to recite those martial exploits by which 
these ends were accomplished, or the resolute defences we 
ourselves and our forefathers have made against the formida- 
ble invasions of barbarians and Greeks. Your own know- 
ledge of these will excuse the long detail. But by what 
methods we have risen to this height of glory and power ; 
by what polity, and by what conduct, we are thus aggran- 
dized ; I shall first endeavour to show, and then proceed to 
the praise of the deceased. These, in my opinion, can be 
no impertinent topics on this occasion ; the discussion of 
them must be beneficial to this numerous company of Athe- 
nians and of strangers. 

We are happy in a form of government which cannot 
envy the laws of our neighbours ; for it hath served as a 
model to others, but is original at Athens. And this our 
form, as committed not to the few, but the whole body of 
the people, is called a democracy. How different soever in 
a private capacity, we all enjoy the same general equality 
our laws are fitted to preserve ; and superior honours, just 
as we excel. The public administration is not confined to 
a particular family, but is attainable only by merit. Poverty 
is not an hinderance, since whoever is able to serve his 
country, meets with no obstacle to preferment from his first 
obscurity. The offices of the state we go through without 
obstructions from one another; and live together in the 
mutual endearments of private life without suspicions; not 
angry with a neighbour for following the bent of his own 
humour, nor putting on that countenance of discontent, 
which pains, though it cannot punish; so that in private 
life we converse together without diffidence or damage, 
whilst we dare not, on any account, offend against the 
public, through the reverence we bear to the magistrates and 
the laws, chiefly to those enacted for redress of the injured, 
and to those unwritten, a breach of which is allowed dis- 
grace. Our laws have further provided for the mind, most 
frequent intermissions of care, by the appointment of public 
recreations and sacrifices throughout the year, elegantly 
performed with a peculiar pomp, the daily delight of which 
is a charm that puts melancholy to flight. The grandeur of 



orator's own book. 159 

this our Athens causes the produce of the whole earth to be 
imported here, by which we reap a familiar enjoyment, not 
more of the delicacies of our own growth, than of those of 
other nations. 

In the affairs of war we excel those of our enemies, who 
adhere to methods opposite to our own; for we lay open 
Athens to general resort, nor ever drive any stranger from 
us, whom either improvement or curiosity hath brought 
amongst us, lest any enemy should hurt us by seeing what 
is never concealed ; we place not so great a confidence in 
the preparatives and artifices of war as in the native warmth 
of our souls impelling us to action. In point of education, 
the youth of some people are inured by a course of laborious 
exercise, to support toil and hardship like men ; but we, 
notwithstanding our easy and elegant way of life, face all 
the dangers of war as intrepidly as they. This may be 
proved by facts, since the Lacedemonians never invade our 
territories, barely with their own, but with the united 
strength of all their confederates. But when we invade the 
dominions of our neighbours, for the most part we conquer 
without difficulty, in an enemy's country, those who fight 
in defence of their own habitations. The strength of our 
whole force, no enemy hath yet ever experienced, because 
it is divided by our naval expeditions, or engaged in the dif- 
ferent quarters of our service by land. But if any where 
they engage and defeat a small part of our forces, they 
boastingly give it out a total defeat; and, if they are beat, 
they were certainly overpowered by our united strength. 
What though from a state of inactivity, rather than laborious 
exercise, or with a natural, rather than an acquired valour, 
we learn to encounter danger, this good at least we receive 
from it, that we never droop under the apprehension of pos- 
sible misfortunes, and when we hazard the danger, are 
found no less courageous than those who are continually 
inured to it. In these respects, our whole community 
deserves justly to be admired, and in many we have yet to 
mention. 

In our manner of living we show an elegance tempered 
with frugality, and we cultivate philosophy without ener- 
vating the mind. We display our wealth in the season of 
beneficence, and not in the vanity of discourse. A confes- 
sion of poverty is disgrace to no man; no effort to avoid it, 



160 orator's own book. 

is disgrace indeed. There is visibly, in the same persons, 
an attention to their own private concerns, and those of the 
public ; and, in others, engaged in the labours of life, there 
is a competent skill in the affairs of government. For we 
are the only people who think him that does not meddle in 
state affairs — not indolent, but good for nothing. And yet 
we pass the soundest judgment, and are quick at catching 
the right apprehensions of things, not thinking that words 
are prejudicial to actions : but rather the not being duly pre- 
pared by previous debate, before we are obliged to proceed 
to execution. Herein consists our distinguishing excellence, 
that in the hour of action we show the greatest courage and 
yet debate beforehand the expediency of our measures. 
The courage of others is the result of ignorance ; delibera- 
tion makes them cowards. And those undoubtedly must be 
owned to have the greatest souls, who, most acutely sensi- 
ble to the miseries of war and the sweets of peace, are not 
hence in the least deterred from facing danger. 

In acts of beneficence, further, we differ from the many. 
We preserve friends, not by receiving, but by conferring 
obligations. For he who does a kindness, hath the advan- 
tage over him who, by the law of gratitude, becomes a 
debtor to his benefactor. The person obliged is compelled 
to act the more inspired part, conscious that a return of 
kindness is merely a payment, and not an obligation. And 
we alone are splendidly beneficent to others, not so much 
from interested motives, as for the credit of pure liberality. 
I shall sum up what yet remains, by only adding, that our 
Athens, in general, is the school of Greece ; and that every 
single Athenian among us is excellently formed, by his per- 
sonal qualifications, for all the various scenes of active life, 
acting with a most graceful demeanour, and a most ready 
habit of despatch. 

That I have not, on this occasion, made use of a pomp of 
words, but the truth of facts, that height to which, by such 
a conduct, this state hath risen, is an undeniable proof. For 
we are now the only people of the world, who are found 
by experience to be greater than in report ; the only peo- 
ple who, in repelling the attacks of an invading enemy, 
exempts their defeat from the blush of indignation, and to 
their tributaries no discontent, as if subject to men unworthy 
to command. That we deserve our power, we need no 



orator's own book. 161 

evidence to manifest; we have great and signal proofs of 
this, which entitle us to the admiration of the present and 
of future ages. We want no Homer to be the herald of our 
praise ; no poet to deck off a history with the charms of 
verse, where the opinion, of exploits must suffer by a strict 
relation. Every sea hath been opened by our fleets, and 
every land been penetrated by our armies, which have every 
where left behind them eternal monuments of our enmity 
and our friendship. 

In the just defence of such a state, these victims of their 
own valour, scorning the ruin threatened to it, have valiantly 
fought and bravely died. And every one of those who 
survive is ready ; I am persuaded, to sacrifice life in such a 
cause. And for this reason have I enlarged so much on 
national points, to give the clearest proof, that in the present 
war we have more at stake than men whose public advan- 
tages are not so valuable ; and to illustrate, by actual evi- 
dence, how great a commendation is due to them who are 
now my subjects, and the greatest part of which they have 
already received. For the encomiums with which I have 
celebrated the state, have been earned for it by the bravery 
of these, and of men like these. And such compliments 
might be thought too high and exaggerated, if passed on any 
Grecians, but them alone. The fatal period to which these 
gallant souls are now reduced, is the surest evidence of 
their merit — an evidence begun in their lives, and completed 
by their death : for it is a debt of justice to pay superior 
honours to men, who have devoted their lives in fighting 
for their country, though inferior to others in every virtue 
but that of valour. Their last service effaceth all former 
demerits — it extends to the public : their private demeanours 
reached only to a few. Yet not one of these was at all in- 
duced to shrink from danger, through fondness of those 
delights which the peaceful affluent life bestows ; not one 
was the less lavish of his life, through that flattering hope 
attendant upon want, that poverty at length might be ex- 
changed for affluence. One passion there was in their 
minds much stronger than these, the desire of vengeance on 
their enemies. Regarding this as the most honourable 
prize of dangers, they boldly rushed towards the mark, to 
seek revenge, and then to satisfy those secondary passions. 
The uncertain event they had already secured in hope ; 
14 * 



162 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

what their eyes showed plainly must be done, they trusted 
their own valour to accomplish, thinking it more glorious to 
defend themselves, and die in the attempt, than to yield and 
live. From the reproach of cowardice, indeed, they fled, 
but presented their bodies to the shock of battle ; when, in- 
sensible of fear, but triumphing in hope, in the doubtful 
charge they instantly drop, and thus discharged the duty 
which brave men owe to their country. 

As for you, who now survive them, it is your business to 
pray for a better fate — but to think it your duty also to pre- 
serve the same spirit and warmth of courage against your 
enemies; not judging the expediency of this from a mere 
harangue — where any man indulging a flow of words, may 
tell you, what you yourselves know as well as he, how 
many advantages there are in fighting valiantly against your 
enemies — but rather making the daily increasing grandeur of 
this community the object of your thoughts, and growing 
quite enamoured of it. And, when it really appears great 
to your apprehensions, think again that this grandeur was 
acquired by brave and valiant men ; by men who knew their 
duty, and in the moments of action were sensible of shame ; 
who whenever their attempts were unsuccessful, thought it 
dishonourable their country should stand in need of any 
thing their valour could do for it, and so made it the most 
glorious present. Bestowing thus their lives on the public, 
they have every one received a praise that will never decay, 
a sepulchre that will be most illustrious. Not that in which 
their bones lie mouldering, but that in which their fame is 
preserved, to be on every occasion, when honour is the 
employ of either word or act, eternally remembered. This 
whole earth is the sepulchre of illustrious men ; nor is it 
the inscription on the columns in their native soil that alone 
shows their merit, but the memorial of them, better than all 
inscriptions, in every foreign nation, reposited more durably 
in universal remembrance than on their own tomb. From 
this very moment, emulating these noble patterns, placing 
your happiness in liberty, and liberty in valour, be prepared 
to encounter all the dangers of war. For, to be lavish of 
life is not so noble in those whom misfortunes have reduced 
to misery and despair, as in men who hazard the loss of a 
comfortable subsistence, and the enjoyment of all the bless- 
ings this world affords, by an unsuccessful enterprise. 



163 

Adversity, after a series of ease and affluence, sinks deeper 
into the heart of a man of spirit, than the stroke of death 
insensibly received in the vigour of life and public hope. 

For this reason, the parents of those who are now gone, 
whoever of them may be attending here, I do not bewail : — 
I shall rather comfort. It is well known to what unhappy 
accidents they were liable from the moment of their birth ; 
and that happiness belongs to men who have reached the 
most glorious period of life, as these now have who are to 
you the source of sorrow ; those, whose life hath received 
its ample measure, happy in its continuance, and equally 
happy in its conclusion. I know it in truth a difficult 
task to fix comfort in those breasts which will have frequent 
remembrances, in seeing the happiness of others, of what 
they once themselves enjoyed. And sorrow flows not from 
the absence of those good things we have never yet expe- 
rienced, but from the loss of those to which we have been 
accustomed. They, who are not yet by age exempted from 
issue, should be comforted in the hope of having more. 
The children yet to be born will be a private benefit to 
some, in causing them to forget such as no longer are, and 
will be a double benefit to- their country, in preventing its 
desolation, and providing for its security. For those per- 
sons cannot in common justice be regarded as members of 
equal value to the public, who have no children to expose 
to danger for its safety. But you, whose age is already far 
advanced, compute the greater share of happiness your 
longer time hath afforded for so much gain, persuaded in 
yourselves the remainder will be but short, and enlighten 
that space by the glory gained by these. It is greatness of 
soul alone that never grows old ; nor is it wealth that delights 
in the latter stage of life, as some give out, so much as 
honour. 

To you, the sons and brothers of the deceased, whatever 
number of you are here, a field of hard}^ contention is opened. 
For, him who no longer is, every one is ready to commend ; 
so that to whatever height you push your deserts, you will 
scarce ever be thought to equal, but to be somewhat inferior 
to these. Envy will exert itself against a competitor 
whilst life remains ; but when death stops the competition, 
affection will applaud without restraint. 



164 

If, after this, it be expected from me to say any thing to 
you, who are now reduced to a state of widowhood, about 
female virtue, I shall express it all in one short admonition : 
it is your greatest glory not to be deficient in the virtue 
peculiar to your sex, and to give the men as little handle as 
possible to talk of your behaviour, whether well or ill. 

I have now discharged the province allotted me by the 
laws, and said what I thought most pertinent to this assem- 
bly. Our departed friends have by facts been already 
honoured. Their children, from this day till they arrive at 
manhood, shall be educated at the public expense of the 
state,* which hath appointed so beneficial a meed for these, 
and all future relics of the public contests. For wherever 
the greatest rewards are proposed for virtue, there the best 
of patriots are ever to be found. Now, let every one respec- 
tively indulge the decent grief for his departed friends, and 
then retire. 



DIALOGUE.— Sheridan. 



PUFF, DANGLE AND SNEER. 
[Enter Puff.] 

Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you ? 

Dang. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr. Puff 
to you. 

Puff. Mr. Sneer is this ? Sir, he is a gentleman whom I 
have long panted for the honour of knowing — a gentleman 
whose critical talents and transcendent judgment — 

Sneer. Dear sir — 

Dang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneer ; my friend Pun* 
only talks to you in the style of his profession. 

Sneer. His profession ! 

Puff. Yes, sir ; I make no secret of the trade I follow — 
among friends and brother authors. Dangle knows I love 
to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself viva voce. 
I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric, or, to speak more 

* The law was, that they should be instructed at the public ex- 
pense, and when come to age, presented with a complete suit of 
armour, and honoured with the first seats in all public places. 



orator's own book. 165 

plainly — a professor of the art of puffing, at your service — 
or any body else's. 

Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging ! — I believe, Mr. Puff, 
I have often admired your talents in the daily prints. 

Puff. Yes, sir, I flatter myself I do as much business in 
that way as any six of the fraternity in town — hard work 
all the summer — Friend Dangle ! never worked harder ! — 
But, hark ye, — the winter managers were a little sore, I 
believe. 

Dang. No — I believe they took it all in good part. 

Puff- Ay ! — Then that must have been affectation in 
them ; for, there were some of the attacks which there was 
no laughing at ! 

Sneer. Ay, the humorous ones. But I should think, Mr. 
Puff, that authors would in general be able to do this sort of 
work for themselves. 

Puff. Why, yes — but in a clumsy way. Besides, we 
look on that as an encroachment, and so take the opposite 
side. I dare say now you conceive half the very civil para- 
graphs and advertisements you see, to be written by the 
parties concerned, or their friends. No such thing — nine- 
out often, manufactured by me in the way of business. 

Sneer. Indeed ! 

Puff. Even the auctioneers now — the auctioneers, I say, 
though the rogues have lately got some credit for their lan- 
guage — not an article of the merit their' s ! Take them out 
of their pulpits, and they are as dull as catalogues ! — No 
sir ;■ — 't was I first enriched their style — 'twas I first taught 
them to crowd their advertisements with panegyrical super- 
latives, each epithet rising above the other — like the bidders 
in their own auction rooms ! From me they learned to 
inlay their phraseology with variegated chips of exotic 
metaphor : by me, too, their inventive faculties were called 
forth. Yes, sir, by me they were instructed to clothe ideal 
walls with gratuitous fruits — to insinuate obsequious rivu- 
lets into visionary groves — to teach cautious shrubs to nod 
their approbation of the grateful soil ! or on emergencies, to 
raise upstart oaks, where there never had been an acorn, — 
to create a delightful vicinage without the assistance of a 
neighbour ; or fix the temple of Hygeia in the fens of Lin- 
colnshire ! 



186 

Dang. I am sure you have done them infinite service ; 
for now, when a gentleman is ruined, he parts with his house 
with some credit. 

Sneer. But pray, Mr. Puff, what first put you on exer- 
cising your talents in this way ? 

Puff. Sheer necessity — the proper parent of an art so 
nearly allied to invention ; you must know, Mr. Sneer, that 
from the first time I tried my hand at an advertisement, my 
success was such, that for sometime after, I led a most 
extraordinary life indeed ! 

Sneer. How, pray? 

Puff. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my 
misfortunes. 

Sneer. By your misfortunes ? 

Puff. Yes, sir, assisted by long sickness, and other occa- 
sional disorders ; and a very comfortable living I had of it. 

Sneer. From sickness and misfortunes ? 

Puff. Hark ye ! By advertisements, ' To the charitable 
and humane ! ' and ' To those whom Providence hath bless- 
ed with affluence ! ' 

Sneer. Oh, — I understand you. 

Puff. And, in truth, I deserved what I got ; for I sup- 
pose never man went through such a series of calamities 
in the same space of time ! — Sir, I was five times made a 
bankrupt, and reduced from a state of affluence, by a train 
of unavoidable misfortune ! then, sir, though a very indus- 
trious tradesman, I was twice burnt out, and lost my little 
all both times ! — I lived upon those fires a month. I soon 
after was confined by a most excruciating disorder, and lost 
the use of my limbs ! That told very well ; for 1 had the 
case strongly attested, and went about collecting the sub- 
scriptions myself. 

Dang. I believe that was when you first called on me — 

Puff. What — in November last 1 — Oh no ! I was, when 
I called on you, a close prisoner in the Marshalsei, for a 
debt benevolently contracted to serve a friend ! I was 
afterwards twice tapped for a dropsy, which declined into a 
very profitable consumption ! I was then reduced to — 
no — then, I became a widow with six helpless children, — 
after having had eleven husbands pressed. 

Sneer. And you bore all with patience, I make no doubt ? 



orator's own book. 167 

Puff. "Why, yes, — though I made some occasional at- 
tempts at felo de se ; but as I did not find those rash actions 
answer, I left off killing myself very soon. Well, sir, — 
at last, what with bankruptcies, fires, gouts, dropsies, im- 
prisonments, and other valuable calamities, having got 
together a pretty handsome sum, I determined to quit a 
business which had always gone rather against my con- 
science, and in a more liberal way still to indulge my 
talents for fiction and embellishment, through my favourite 
channels of diurnal communication — and so, sir, you have 
my history. 

Sneer. Most obligingly communicative, indeed ; and your 
confession, if published, might certainly serve the cause of 
true charity, by rescuing the most useful channels of appeal 
to benevolence from the cant of imposition. But surely, 
Mr. PufT, there is no great mystery in your present profes- 
sion ? 

Pvff. Mystery! sir, I will take upon me to say the 
matter was never scientifically treated, nor reduced to rule 
before. 

Sneer. Reduced to rule ? 

Puff. O sir ! you are very ignorant, I am afraid. Yes, 
sir, — Puffing is of various sorts ; — the principal are, the 
Puff direct — the PufT preliminary — the PufF collateral — the 
PufF collusive — and the Puff oblique, or PufFby implication. 
These all assume, as circumstances require, the various 
forms of Letter to the Editor — Occasional Anecdote — Im- 
partial critique — Observation from Correspondent — or, Ad- 
vertisement from the Party. 

Sneer. The PufF direct I can conceive. 

Puff. O yes, that's simple enough, — for instance — A new 
comedy or farce is to be produced at one of the theatres 
(though, by-the-by, they don't bring out half what they ought 
to do :) the author, suppose Mr. Smatter, or Mr. Dapper — 
or any particular friend of mine — very well; the day before 
it is to be performed, I write an account of the manner in 
which it was received — I have the plot from the author, — 
and only add — Characters strongly drawn — highly coloured 
— hand of a master — fund of genuine humour — mine of 
invention — neat dialogue — attic salt! Then for the per- 
formance — Mr. Dodd was astonishingly great in the charac- 
ter of Sir Harry ! That universal and judicious actor, Mr. 



168 orator's own book. 

Palmer, perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in 
the Colonel : but it is not in the power of language to do 
justice to Mr. King ! — Indeed he more than merited those 
repeated bursts of applause, which he drew from a most 
brilliant and judicious audience ! As to the scenery — The 
miraculous powers of Mr. De Loutherburgh's pencil are 
universally acknowledged!— In short, we are at a loss 
which to admire most, — the unrivaled genius of the author 
— the great attention and liberality of the managers — the 
wonderful abilities of the painter, or the incredible exertions 
of all the performers !— 

Sneer. That's pretty well, indeed, sir. 

Puff. O cool — quite cool — to what I sometimes do. 

Sneer. And do you think there are any who are in- 
fluenced by this ? 

Puff. O yes, sir ; — the number of those who undergo the 
fatigue of judging for themselves is very small indeed ! 

Sneer. Well, sir — the Puff preliminary 1 

Puff. O that, sir, does well in the form of a caution. — 
In a matter of gallantry now — Sir Flimsy Gossimer wishes 

to be well with lady Fanny Fete — He applies to me 1 

open trenches for him with a paragraph in the Morning 
Post. It is recommended to the beautiful and accom- 
plished lady F four stars, F dash E, to be on her guard 
against that dangerous character, Sir F dash G ; who, how- 
ever pleasing and insinuating his manners may be, is cer- 
tainly not remarkable for the constancy of his attachments ! 
— in Italics. — Here you see, Sir Flimsy Gossimer is intro- 
duced to the particular notice of lady Fanny — who perhaps 
never thought of him before. She finds herself publicly 
cautioned to avoid him, which naturally makes her desirous 
of seeing him ; — the observation of their acquaintance 
causes a pretty kind of mutual embarrassment ; this produces 
a sort of sympathy of interest — which, if Sir Flimsy is 
unable to improve effectually, he at least gains the credit 
of having their names mentioned together, by a particular 
set, and in a particular way, — which, nine times out of ten, 
is the full accomplishment of modern gallantry. 

Dang. Sneer, you will be quite an adept in the business. 

Puff. Now, sir, the Puff collateral is much used as an 
appendage to advertisements, and may take the form of 
anecdote. — Yesterday, as the celebrated George Bon-Mot 



169 

was sauntering down St. James's-street, he met the lively- 
lady Mary Myrtle, coming out of the Park. — " Good hea- 
ven! lady Mary, I am surprised to meet you in a white 
jacket, — for I expected never to have seen you, but in a 
full- trimmed uniform and a light-horseman's cap !" — " Hea- 
vens, George, where could you have learned that 1"—>- 
" Why," replied the wit, "I just saw a print of you in a 
new publication called the Camp Magazine, which, by-the- 
by, is a very clever thing, — and is sold at No, 3, on the 
right-hand of the way, two doors from the printing-office, 
the corner of Ivy-lane, Paternoster-row, price only one 
shilling." 

Sneer. Very ingenious, indeed ! 

Puff. But the Puff collusive is the newest of any ; for it 
acts in the disguise of determined hostility. — It is much 
used by bold booksellers and enterprising poets.— An 
indignant correspondent observes — that the new poem called 
Beelzebub's Cotillon , or Proserpine's Fete Champetre, is 
one of the most unjustifiable performances he ever read ! 
The severity with which certain characters are handled is 
quite shocking! And as there are many descriptions in it 
too warmly coloured for female delicacy, the shameful 
avidity with which this piece is bought by all people of 
fashion, is a reproach on the taste of the times, and a dis- 
grace to the delicacy of the age ! — Here you see the two 
strongest inducements are held forth; — First, that nobody 
ought to read it ; — and, secondly, that everybody buys it : 
on the strength of which, the publisher boldly prints the 
tenth edition, before he had sold ten of the first ; and then 
establishes it by threatening himself with the pillory, or 
absolutely indicting himself for scan. mag. ! 

Dang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — I know it is so. 

Puff. As to the PufT oblique, or Puff by implication, it 
branches into so many varieties, that it is the last principal 

class of the art of puffing An art which I hope you will 

now agree with me, is of the highest dignity. 

Sneer. Sir, I am completely a convert, both to the impor- 
tance and ingenuity of your profession. 
15 



170 orator's own book. 



PRINCE HENRY AND HIS FATHER.-r- Shdkspeare. 

P. Henry. I never thought to hear you speak again. 

K. Henry. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought. 
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. 
Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair, 
That thou will needs invest thee with my honours, 
Before thy hour be ripe ! O foolish youth ! 
Thou seek'st the greatness that will o'erwhelm thee. 
Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity 
Is held from falling with so weak a wind, 
That it will quickly drop ; my day is dim. 
Thou hast stol'n that, which after some few hours, 
Were thine without offence ; and at my death 
Thou hast sealed up my expectation ; 
Thy life did manifest, thou lov'dst me not ; 
And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it. 
Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, 
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart 
To stab at half an hour of my frail life. 
What ! canst thou not forbear me half an hour ? 
Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself, 
And bid the merry bells ring to thy ear, 
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. 
Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse, 
Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head : 
Only compound me with forgotten dust ; 
Give that which gave thee life unto the worms ; 
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees ; 
For now a time is come to mock at form ; 
Henry the Fifth is crown'd : up, Vanity ! 
Down royal state ! All your sage counsellors, hence ! 
And to the English court assemble now, 
From every region apes of idleness : 
Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum ; 
Have you a ruffian that will swear ? drink ? dance ? 
Revel the night? rob? murder? and commit 
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? 
Be happy, he will trouble you no more ; 
England shall give him office, honour, might: 
For the Fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks 
The muzzle of restraint ! and the wild dog 



171 

Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. 

my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 

O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, 
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. 

P. Henry. O pardon me, my liege ! but for my tears 
(The moist impediments unto my speech) 

1 had forestall' d this dear and deep rebuke, 
Ere, you with grief had spoke, and I had heard 
The course of it so far. There is your crown ; 
And he that wears the crown immortally, 
Long guard it yours ! If I affect it more, 
Than as your honour, and as your renown, 

Let me no more from this obedience rise, 
Which my most true and inward-duteous spirit 
Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending. 
Heav'n witness with me, when I here came in, 
And found no course of breath within you majesty, 
How cold it struck my heart ! If I do feign, 

let me in my present wildness die, 

And never live to show the incredulous world 
The noble change that I have purposed. 
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead, 
(And dead almost, my liege to think you were) 

1 spake unto the crown as having sense, 

And thus upbraided it. " The care on thee depending 

Hath fed upon the body of my father, 

Therefore thou, best of gold, art worst of gold; 

Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, 

Preserving life in med'cine potable: 

But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renownM, 

Hast eat thy bearer up." Thus, royal liege, 

Accusing it, 1 put it on my head, 

To try with it (as with an enemy, 

That had before my face murder' d my father) 

The quarrel of a true inheritor. 

But if it did infect my blood with joy, 

Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride, 

If any rebel or vain spirit of mine 

Did with the least affection of a welcome 

Give entertainment to the might of it ? 



172 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

Let Heav'n forever keep it from my head, 
And make me as the poorest vassal is, 
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it ! 

K. Henry. O my son ! 
Heav'n put it in thy mind to take it hence, 
That thou might'st win the more thy father's love, 
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it. 
Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ; 
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel 
That ever I shall breathe. Heav'n knows, my son, 
By what by-paths, and indirect crook'd ways 
I met this crown ; and I myself know well, 
How troublesome it sat upon my head. 
To thee it shall descend with better quiet, 
Better opinion, better confirmation ; 
For all the soil of the achievement goes 
With me into the earth. It seem'd in me 
But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand, 
And I had many living to upbraid 
My gain of it by their assistances ; 
Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, 
Wounding supposed peace. All their bold feats, 
Thou seest, with peril I have answered. 
For all my reign hath been but as a scene 
Acting that argument : and now my death 
Changes the mode : for what in me was purchas'd, 
Falls upon men in a much fairer sort ; 
For thou the garland wear'st successively. 
Yet though thou stand'st more sure than I could do, 
Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green : 
And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, 
Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out : 
By whose fell working I was first advanc'd, 
And by whose pow'r I well might lodge a fear, 
To be again displac'd ; which to avoid, 
I cut them off, and had a purpose now 
To lead out many to the holy land ; 
Lest rest and lying still might make them look 
Too near into my state. Therefore, my Harry, 
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds 
With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence, born out, 
May waste the memory of former days. 



173 



More would I, but my lungs are wasted so, 
That strength of speech is utterly denied me. 
How I came by the crown, O God, forgive ! 
And grant it may with thee in true peace live ! 

P. Henry. My gracious liege, 
You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ; 
Then plain and right must my possession be : 
Which I with more than with a common pain, 
'Gainst all the world, will rightfully maintain, 



CLARENCE'S DREAM.-— s/^peare. 

CLARENCE AND BRAKENBURY. 

Brak. Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day ? 

Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night, 
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, 
That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
I would not spend another such a night, 
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; 
So full of dismal terror was the time. 

Brak. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you 
tell me. 

Clar. Methought that I had broken from the tow'r, 
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy, 
And in my company my brother Glo'ster; 
Who from my cabin templed me to walk 
Upon the hatchets. Thence we look'd tow'rd England, 
And cited up a thousand heavy times, 
During the wars of York and Lancaster, 
That had, befall' n us. As we pass'd along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatchets, 
Methought that Glo'ster stumbled, and, in falling, 
Struck me (that sought to stay him) over-board, 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

Lord, lord, methought, what pain it was to drown ! 
What dreadful noise of waters in my ears ! 
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 
1 thought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon; 
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,, 
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels ; 
15* 



174 

Some lay in dead men's sculls ; and in those holes 
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, 
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems ; 
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, 
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. 

JBrak. Had you such leisure in the time of death, 
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? 

Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive 
To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood 
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To find the empty, vast and wand'ring air ; 
But smother'd it within my panting bulk, 
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 

JBrak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony ? 

Clar. No, no ; my dream was lengthen'd after life 

then began the tempest to my soul : 

1 pass'd methought, the melancholy flood, 
With that grim ferryman which poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

The first that there did greet my stranger-soul 
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, 

Who cried aloud " What scourge for perjury 

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?" 
And so he vanished. Then came wand'ring by 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 

Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud 

" Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, 

That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ; 

Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments !"— 

With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 

Environed me, and howled in mine ears 

Such hideous cries, that with the very noise 

I trembling wak'd : and for a season after 

Could not believe but that I was in hell : 

Such terrible impression made my dream. 

Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you ; 
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. 

Clar. Ah ! Brakenbury, I have done those things 
That now give evidence against my soul, 
For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me ! 
O God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, 
But thou will be aveng'd on my misdeeds ; 



175 



Yet execute thy wrath on me alone ; 

spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children ! 

1 jsr'ythee, Brakenbury, stay by me ; 
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. 



CONCLUSION OF THE EARL OF STAFFORD S DEFENCE OF HIM- 
SELF BEFORE THE HOUSE OF LORDS. 1641. 

My Lords, — It is hard to be questioned upon a law which 
cannot be shown. Where hath this fire lain hid so many 
hundred years, without smoke to discover it, till it thus burst 
forth to consume me and my children ? 

That punishment should precede promulgation of a law, 
to be punished by a law subsequent to the fact, is extreme 
hard. What man can be safe if this be admitted ? 

My lords, it is hard in another respect, that there should 
be no token set by which we should know this offence : no 
admonition by which we should avoid it. If the man pass 
the Thames in a boat, and split himself upon an anchor, and 
no buoy be floating to discover it, he who owneth the anchor 
shall make satisfaction ; but if a buoy be set there, every 
man passeth upon his own peril. Now, where is the mark, 
where is the token upon this crime to declare it to be high 
treason ? 

My lords, be pleased to give that regard to the peerage of 
England, as never to expose yourselves to such moot points, 
such constructive interpretations of law ; if there must be a 
trial of wits, let the subject matter be of somewhat else than 
the lives and honours of peers. 

It will be wisdom for yourselves, for your posterity, and 
for the whole kingdom, to cast into the fire these bloody 
and mysterious volumes of constructive and arbitrary trea- 
son, as the primitive Christians did their books of curious 
arts, and betake yourselves to the plain letter of the law and 
statute, that telleth us what is, and what is not treason, 
without being ambitious to be more learned in the art of 
killing than our forefathers. 

It is now full two hundred and forty years since any 
man was touched for this alleged crime, to this height, 
before myself. Let us not awaken these sleeping lions to 



176 

our destruction, by taking up a few musty records that have 
lain by the walls so many ages, forgotten or neglected. 

May your lordships please not to add this to my other 
misfortunes ; let not a precedent be derived from me so dis- 
advantageous as this will be, in its consequence, to the whole 
kingdom. Do not, through me, wound the interest of the 
commonwealth : and howsoever these gentlemen say, they 
speak for the commonwealth ; yet in this particular, I 
indeed speak for it, and show the inconvenience and mischiefs 
that will fall upon it : for as it is said in the statute of 1 
Henry IV. no one will know what to do or say, for fear of 
such penalties. 

Do not put, my lords, such difficulties upon ministers of 
state, that men of wisdom, of honour, and of fortune, may 
not with cheerfulness and safety be employed for the public. 
If you weigh and measure them by grains and scruples, the 
public affairs of the kingdom will lie waste ; no man will 
meddle with them, who hath any thing to lose. 

My lords, I have troubled you longer than I would have 
done, were it not for the interest of those dear pledges a 
saint in heaven hath left me. 

[At this word he stopped awhile, letting fall some tears 
to her memory ; then he went on] — 

What I forfeit myself is nothing ; but that my indiscretion 
should extend to my posterity, woundeth me to the very 
soul ! 

You will pardon my infirmity. Something I should have 
added but am not able ; therefore let it pass. 

Now, my lords, for myself, I have been by the blessing 
of Almighty God, taught, that the afflictions of this present 
life are not to be compared to the eternal weight of glory 
which shall be revealed hereafter. 

And so, my lords, even so with all tranquillity of mind, I 
freely submit myself to your judgment, and whether that 
judgment be of life or death, te Deum laudamiis. 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 177 



TWILIGHT. Halleck. 



There is an evening twilight of the heart, 

When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest. 
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 

As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
? Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 

We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 

But Hope is round us with her angel lay, 
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; 
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. 

In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow : 

Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song 
Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo 

Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 
Life's little world of bliss was newly born ; 

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die. 
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, 

With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, 
Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. 

And manhood felt her sway too, — on the eye, 

Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, 
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, 

Its days of joy, its vigils of delight; 
And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, 

And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form* 

The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 
? T is in life's noontide she is nearest seen, 
Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. 

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, 

There 's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; 

That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, 

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; 



178 



That smile shall brighten the dim evening star 
That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart, 

Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart ; 

The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, 

A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death. 



-Jane Taylor. 

What were they ? — you ask : you shall presently see ; 
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea ; 
O no; — for such properties wond'rous had they, 
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh, 
Together with articles, small or immense, 
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense ; 
Nought was there so bulky but there it could lay, 
And nought so ethereal but there it would stay ; 
And nought so reluctant but in it must go :- — 
AH which some examples more clearly will show. 

The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, 
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there ; 
As a weight he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, 
Containing the prayer of the. penitent thief; 
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, 
As to bound like a ball on the roof of his cell. 

Next time he put in Alexander the Great, 
With a garment that Dorcas had made — for a weight ; 
And though clad in armour from sandals to crown, 
The hero rose up, and the garment went down. 

A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed 
By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud, 
Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest 
By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest ; 
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, 
And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bounce. 

By further experiments (no matter how) 
He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough. 
A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, 
Though balanced by only a tenpenny nail. 



orator's own book. 179 

A lord and a lady went up at full sail, 

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. 

Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, — 

Ten counsellor's wigs full of powder and curl, — 

All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence, 

Weighed less than some atoms of candour and sense ; — 

A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt, 

Than one good potato just washed from the dirt ; — 

Yet not mountains of silver and gold would suffice. 

One pearl to outweigh — 'twas " the pearl of great price !" 

At last the whole world was bowled in at the grate 
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight; — 
When the former sprung up with so strong a rebuff, 
That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roof- — 
While the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell, 
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. 



EXTRACT FROM A REVIEW OF MILTON's WORKS. Charming. 

We now come to a serious objection to Milton's prose 
writings, and that is, that they are disfigured by party 
spirit, coarse invective, and controversial asperity ; and here 
we are prepared to say, that there are passages in these 
works which every admirer of his character must earnestly 
desire to expunge. Milton's alleged virulence was mani- 
fested towards private and public foes. In regard- to the 
public enemies whom he assailed, we mean the despots in 
church and state, and the corrupt institutions which had 
stirred up a civil war, the general strain of his writings, 
though strong and stern, must exalt him, notwithstanding 
his occasional violence, among the friends of civil and reli- 
gious liberty. That liberty was in peril. Great evils were 
struggling for perpetuity, and could only be broken down 
by great power. Milton felt, that interests of infinite 
moment were at stake ; and who will blame him for binding 
himself to them with the whole energy of his great mind, 
and for defending them with fervour and vehemence ? There 
is constantly going on in our world, a conflict between good 
and evil. The cause of human nature has always to wrestle 
with foes. All improvement is a victory won by strug- 



180 orator's own book. 

gles. It is especially true of those great periods, which 
have been distinguished by revolutions in government and 
religion, and from which we date the most rapid movements 
of the human mind, that they have been signalized by con- 
flict. Thus Christianity convulsed the world and grew up 
amidst storms ; and the reformation of Luther was a signal 
to universal war; and liberty in both worlds has encoun- 
tered opposition, over which she has triumphed only 
through her own immortal energies. At such periods, 
men gifted with great power of thought and loftiness of sen- 
timent are especially summoned to the conflict with evil. 
They hear, as it were, in their own magnanimity and gene- 
rous aspirations, the voice of a divinity ; and thus commis- 
sioned and burning with a passionate devotion to truth and 
freedom, they must and will speak with an indignant 
energy ; and they ought not to be measured by the standard 
of ordinary men in ordinary times. Men of natural softness 
and timidity, of a sincere but effeminate virtue, will be apt 
to look on these bolder, hardier spirits, as violent, perturbed 
and uncharitable ; and the charge will not be wholly ground- 
less. The deeply moved soul will speak strongly, and 
ought so to speak as to move and shake nations. 

Milton reverenced and loved human nature, and attached 
himself to its great interests with a fervour of which only 
such a mind was capable. He lived in one of those solemn 
periods which determine the character of ages to come. His 
spirit was stirred to its very centre by the presence of danger. 
He lived in the midst of battle. That the ardour of his 
spirit sometimes passed the bounds of wisdom and charity, 
and poured forth unwarrantable invectives, we see and 
lament. But the purity and loftiness of his mind break forth 
amidst his bitterest invectives. We see a noble nature still. 
"We see that no feigned love of truth and freedom was a 
covering for selfishness and malignity. He did indeed love 
and adore uncorrupted religion, and intellectual liberty, and 
let his name be enrolled among their truest champions. 



orator's own book. 181 



NATIONAL RECOLLECTIONS THE FOUNDATION OF NATIONAL 
CHARACTER. E. Everett. 

And how is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and 
animated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its his- 
toric recollections ? Are we to be eternally ringing the 
changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and going back 
to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin of the exemplars 
of patriotic virtue ? 

I thank God that we can find them nearer home, in our own 
country, on our own soil ;— that strains of the noblest senti- 
ment that ever swelled in the breast of man, are breathing to 
us out of every page of our country's history, in the native 
eloquence of our mother tongue ; — that the colonial and pro- 
vincial councils of America exhibit to us models of the spirit 
and character, which gave Greece and Rome their name and 
their praise among the nations. Here we ought to go for 
our instruction : — the lesson is plain, it is clear, it is appli- 
cable. 

When we go to ancient history, we are bewildered with 
the difference of manners and institutions. We are willing 
to pay our tribute of applause to the memory of Leonidas, 
who fell nobly for his country, in the face of his foe. But, 
when we trace him to his home, we are confounded at the 
reflection, that the same Spartan heroism, to which he sacri- 
ficed himself at Thermopylae, would have led him to tear 
his own child, if it had happened to be a siekly babe, — the 
very object for which all that is kind and good in man rises 
up to plead, — from the bosom of its mother, and carry it out 
to be eaten by the wolves of Taygetus. 

We feel a glow of admiration at the heroism displayed 
at Marathon, by the ten thousand champions of invaded 
Greece ; but we cannot forget that the tenth part of the num- 
ber were slaves, unchained from the workshops and door- 
posts of their masters, to go and fight the battles of freedom. 

I do not mean that these examples are to destroy the 
interest with which we read the history of ancient times ; 
they possibly increase that interest by the very contrasts 
they exhibit. But they do warn us, if we need the warn- 
ing, to seek our great practical lessons of patriotism at 
home ; out of the exploits and sacrifices of which our own 
16 



182 

country is the theatre ; out of the characters of our own 
fathers. 

Them we know, — the high-souled, natural, unaffected, 
the citizen heroes. We know what happy firesides they 
left for the cheerless camp. We know with what pacific 
habits they dared the perils of the field. There is no mys- 
tery, no romance, no madness, under the name of chivalry, 
about them. It is all resolute, manly resistance for con- 
science and liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming 
power, but of all the force of long-rooted habits, and native 
love of order and peace. 

Above all, their blood calls to us from the soil which we 
tread ; it beats in our veins : it cries to us not merely in the 
thrilling words of one of the first victims in this cause, — 
" My sons, scorn to be slaves !" — but it cries with a still 
more moving eloquence — " My sons, forget not your 
fathers !" Fast, oh ! too fast, with all our efforts to prevent 
it, their precious memories are dying away. Notwithstand- 
ing our numerous written memorials, much of what is known 
of those eventful times dwells but in the recollections of a 
few revered survivors, and with them is rapidly perishing, 
unrecorded and irretrievable. 

How many prudent counsels, conceived in perplexed 
times ; how many heart-stirring words, uttered when liberty 
was treason ; how many brave and heroic deeds, performed 
when the halter, not the laurel, was the promised meed of 
patriotic daring, — are already lost and forgotten in the 
graves of their authors ! How little do we, — although we 
have been permitted to hold converse with the venerable 
remnants of that day, — how little do we know of their dark 
and anxious hours ; of their secret meditations ; of the hur- 
ried and perilous events of the momentous struggle ! 

And while they are dropping around us like the leaves of 
autumn, while scarce a week passes that does not call away 
some member of the veteran ranks, already so sadly thinned, 
shall we make no effort to hand down the traditions of their 
day to our children ; to pass the torch of liberty, — which we 
received in all the splendour of its first enkindling, — bright 
and flaming, to those who stand next us on the line ; so 
that, when we shall come to be gathered to the dust where 
our fathers are laid, we may say to our sons and our grand- 
sons, " If we did not amass, we have not squandered your 
inheritance of glory." 



orator's own book. 183 



CATO S SENATE. Addison. 



Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council. 
Caesar's approach has summon'd us together, 
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. 
How shall we treat this bold aspiring man ? 
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes : 
Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since 
Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's. 
Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, 
And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands 
Still smoke with blood. 'T is time we should decree 
What course to take. Our foe advances on us, 
And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. 
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts : are they still fix'd 
To hold it out and fight it to the last ? 
Or are your hearts subdued at length, and wrought 
By time and ill success to a submission? 
Sempronius, speak. 

Sempronins. My voice is still for war. 
Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate 
Which of the two to choose, slav'ry or death ! 
No, let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 
And, at the head of our remaining troops, 
Attack the foe, break through the thick array 
Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him. 
Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, 
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
Rise, fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help ; 
Rise, and revenge her slaughter' d citizens, 
Or share their fate ! the corpse of half her senate 
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here delib'rating in cold debates, 
If we should sacrifice our lives to honour, 
Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 
Rouse up, for shame ! Our brothers of Pharsalia 
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud — To battle ! 
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, 
And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us. 

Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal 
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason : 



184 

True fortitude is seen in great exploits 
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides : 
All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction. 
Are not the lives of those who draw the sword 
In Rome's defence intrusted to our care ? 
Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, 
Might not the impartial world with reason say, 
We lavish'd at our deaths the blood of thousands, 
To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious ? 
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion. 

Lucius. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace. 
Already have our quarrels fill'd the world 
With widows and with orphans : Scythia mourns 
Oar guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions 
Lie half-unpeopled by the feuds of Rome : 
'T is time to sheath the sword, and spare mankind. 
It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathers, 
The gods declare against us, and repel 
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, 
(Prompted by blind revenge, and wild despair) 
Were to refuse th' awards of Providence, 
And not to rest in Heaven's determination. 
Already have we shown our love to Rome ; 
Now let us show submission to the gods. 
We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, 
But free the commonwealth ; when this end fails, 
Arms have no further use ; our country's cause, 
That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands, 
And bids us not delight in Roman blood, 
Unprofitably shed : what men could do 
Is done already : Heav'n and Earth will witness 
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 

Semp. This smooth discourse, and mild behaviour, oft 

Conceal a traitor Something whispers me 

All is not right — —-Cato, beware of Lucius. 

Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident ; 
Immod'rate valour swells into a fault ; 
And fear, admitted into public councils, 
Betrays like treason. Let us shun 'em both. 
Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs 
Are grown thus desp'rate ; we have bulwarks round us : 
Within our walls are troops inur'd to toil 



orator's own book. 185 

In Afric's heats, and season'd to the sun ; 
Numedia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, 
Ready to rise at its young prince's call. 
While there is hope, do not distrust the gods ; 
But wait at least till Caesar's near approach 
Force us to yield. 'T will never be too late 
To sue for chains, and own a conqueror. 
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time ? 
No, let us draw our term of freedom out 
In its full length, and spin it to the last : 
So shall we gain still one day's liberty ; 
And let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment, 
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, 
Is worth a whole eternity of bondage. 

Enter Marcus. 

Marc. Fathers, this moment, as I watched the gate, 
Lodg'd on my post, a herald is arrived 
From Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, 
The Roman knight : he carries in his looks . 
Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. 

Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid him enter. 
Decius was once my friend, but other prospects 
Have loos'd those ties, and bound him fast to Ceesar. 
His message may determine our resolves. 

Enter Decius. 

Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato 

Cato. Could he send it 
To Cato's slaughter'd friends, it would be welcome. 
Are not your orders to address the senate ? 

Dec. My business is with Cato ; Caesar sees 
The straits to which you 're driven ; and, as he knows 
Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. 

Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. 
Would he save Cato ? Bid him spare his country. , 

Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato 
Disdains a life which he has power to offer. 

Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar ; 
Her gen'rals and her consuls are no more, 
Who check'd his conquests, and denied his triumphs. 
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend? 
16* 



186 orator's own book. 

Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urg'd forbid it* 

Dec. Cato, I 've orders to expostulate 
And reason with you, as from friend to friend : 
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head, 
And threatens every hour to burst upon it ; 
Still may you stand high in your country's honours ; 
Do but comply, and make your peace with Caesar. 
Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato, 
As on the second of mankind. 

Cato. No more : 
I must not think of life on such conditions. 

Dec. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, 
And therefore sets this value on your life : 
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship, 
And name your terms. 

Cato. Bid him disband his legions, 
Restore the commonwealth to liberty, 
Submit his actions to the public censure, 
And stand the judgment of a Roman senate : 
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. 

Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom — 

Cato. Nay more, though Cato's voice was ne'er employed 
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, 
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour, 
And strive to gain his pardon from the people. 

Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror. 

Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. 

Dec. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's foe ? 

Cato. Greater than Caesar : he ? s a friend to virtue. 

Dec. Consider, Cato, you ? re in Utica, 
And at the head of your own little senate ; 
You don't now thunder in the Capitol, 
With all the mouths of Rome to second you. 

Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither. 
? Tis Caesar's sword has made Rome's senate little, 
And thinn'd its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye 
Beholds this man in a false glaring light, 
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him ; 
Did'st thou but view him right, thou Mst see him black 
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes, 
That strike my soul with horror but to name 'em, 
I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch 



orator's own book. 187 

Beset with ills, and covered with misfortunes : 
But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds 
Should never buy me to be like that Caesar. 

Bee. Does Cato send this answerback Caesar, 
For all his gen'rous cares, and profTer'd friendship ? 

Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain: 
Presumptuous man ! the gods take care of Cato. 
Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul ? 
Bid him employ his care for these my friends, 
And make good use of his ill-gotten power, 
By shelt'ring men much better than himself. 

Dec. Your high unconquer'd heart makes you forget 
You are a man. You rush on your destruction. 
But I have done. When I relate hereafter 
The tale of this unhappy embassy, 
All Rome will be in tears. 



JAFFIER AND PIERRE. Otway. 

Jaff. By Heav'n you stir not; 
I must be heard, I must have leave to speak : 
Thou hast disgrae'd me, Pierre, by a vile blow : 
Had not a dagger done thee nobler justice 1 
But use me as thou wilt, thou can^st not wrong me, 
For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries : 
Yet look upon me with an eye of mercy ; 
With pity and with charity behold me ; 
Shut not thy heart against a friend's repentance ; 
But as there dwells a godlike nature in thee, 
Listen with mildness to my supplications. 

Pier. What whining monk art thou ? what holy cheat, 
That would'st encroach upon my credulous ears, 
A nd cant thus vilely ? hence ! I know thee not. 

Jaff. Not know me, Pierre ! 

Pier. No, I know thee not ; what art thou ? 

Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once-lov'd valu'd friend ! 
Though now deserv'dly seorn'd, and us'd most hardly. 

Pier. Thou Jaffier ! thou my once-lov'd valu'd friend i 
By Heav'ns thou ly'st ; the man so call'd my friend, 
Was generous, honest, faithful, just and valiant. 
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely, 



188 orator's own book. 

Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart; 
But thou a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, 
Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy aspect : 
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. 
Prithee avoid, nor longer cling thus round me, 
Like something baneful, that my nature 's chill'd at. 

Jaff. I have not wrong' d thee, by these tears I have not, 
But still am honest, true, and hope too, valiant ; 
My mind still full of thee, therefore still noble. 
Let not thy eyes then shun me, nor thy heart 
Detest me utterly : Oh ! look upon me, 
Look back and see my sad, sincere submission ! 
How my heart swells, as e'en 'twould burst my bosom ; 
Fond of its goal, and labouring to be at thee ; 
What shall I do ? what say to make thee hear me 1 

Pier. Hast thou not wrong'd me ? dar'st thou call thyself 
That once-lov'd valu'd friend of mine, 

And swear thou hast not wrong'd me ? Whence these chains ? 
Whence the vile death, which I may meet this moment ? 
Whence this dishonour, but from thee, thou false one ? 

Jaff. All's true ; yet grant one thing, and I've done asking. 

Pier. What's that ? 

Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions 
The council have propos'd : thou and thy friend 
May yet live long, and to be better treated. 

Pier. Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record myself 
A villain, for the privilege to breathe, 
And carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented and repining spirit, 
Burdensome to itself, a few years longer, 
To lose it, may be at last, in a lewd quarrel 
For some new friend, treacherous and false as thou art ! 
No, this vile world and I have long been jangling, 
And cannot part on better terms than now, 
When only men like thee are fit to live in't. 

Jaff. By all that's just 

Pier. Swear by some other powers, 
For thou hast broken that sacred oath too lately. 

Jaff. Then, by that hell I merit, I'll not leave thee, 
Till to thyself at least thou 'rt reconcil'd, 
However thy resentment deal with me. 

Pier. Not leave me ! 



orator's own book. 189 

Jaff. No ; thou shall not force me from thee ; 
Use me reproachfully, and like a slave, 
Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs 
On my poor head ; I'll bear it all with patience ; 
I'll weary out thy most friendly cruelty, 
Lie at thy feet and kiss 'em, though they spurn me, 
Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent, 
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. 

Pier. Art thou no t 

Jaff. What? 

Pier. A traitor? 

Jaff Yes. 

Pier. A villain ? 

Jaff. Granted. 

Pier. A coward, a most scandalous coward, 
Spiritless, void of honour, one who has sold 
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ? 

Jaff. All, all, and more, much more : my faults are num- 
berless. 

Pier. And would' st thou have me live on terms like thine. 
Base as thou 'rt false ? 

Jaff. No ; 'tis to me that's granted : 
The safety of thy life was all I aim'd at, 
In recompense for faith and trust so broken. 

Pier. I scorn it more, because preserv'd by thee ; 
And as when first my foolish heart took pity 
On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy miseries, 
Reliev'd thy wants, and raised thee from thy state 
Of wretchedness, in which thy fate had plung'd thee, 
To rank thee in my list of noble friends ; 
All I receiv'd, in surety for thy truth, 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a worthless pledge thou since hast stol'n . 
So 1 restore it back to thee again ; 

Swearing, by all those powers which thou hast violated 9 
Never from this curs'd hour to hold communion, 
Friendship or interest with thee, though our years 
Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it Farewell, for now I owe thee nothing, 

Jaff. Say thou wilt live then. 

Pier. For my life, dispose of it 
Just as thou wilt, because 'tis what I'm tir'd with* 



190 

Jaff. Oh Pierre ! 

Pier. No more. 

Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, 
But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. 

Pier. Leave me — Nay, then thus, thus I throw thee from 
me ; 
And curses, great as is thy falsehood, catch thee. 



THE HORRORS OF WAR. 



Extract from a Sermon of the Rev. Thomas Chalmers, entitled, " Thoughts on 
Universal Peace." 

The first great obstacle, my friends, to the extinction of 
war, is the way in which the heart of man is carried off 
from its barbarities and its horrors, by the splendour of its 
deceitful accompaniments. There is a feeling of the sub- 
lime in contemplating the shock of armies, just as there is in 
contemplating the devouring energy of a tempest ; and this 
so elevates and engrosses the whole man, that his eye is 
blind to the tears of bereaved parents, and his ear is deaf to 
the piteous moan of the dying, and the shriek of their deso- 
lated families. There is a gracefulness in the picture of a 
youthful warrior burning for distinction on the field, and 
lured by this generous aspiration to the deepest of the ani- 
mated throng, where, in the fell work of death, the opposing 
sons of valour struggle for a remembrance and a name ; and 
this side of the picture is so much the exclusive object of 
our regard, as to disguise from our view the mangled car- 
casses of the fallen, and the writhing agonies of the hundreds 
and the hundreds more, who have been laid on the cold 
ground, where they are left to languish and to die. There 
no eye pities them. No sister is there to weep over them. 
There no gentle hand is present to ease the dying posture, 
or bind up the wounds, which in the maddening fury of the 
combat, have been given and received by the children of one 
common Father. There death spreads its pale ensigns 
over every countenance, and when night comes on, and 
darkness around them, how many a despairing wretch must 
take up with the bloody field as the untended bed of his last 
sufferings, without one friend to bear the message of ten- 



191 

derness to his distant home ; without one companion to close 
his eyes. 

On every side of me, I see causes at work which go to 
spread a most delusive colouring over war, and to remove 
its shocking barbarities to the back-ground of our contem- 
plations altogether. I see it in the history which tells me 
of the superb appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of 
their successive charges. I see it in the poetry, which lends 
the magic of its numbers to the narrative of blood, and trans- 
ports its many admirers, as by its images, and its figures, 
and its nodding plumes of chivalry, it throws its treacherous 
embellishments over a scene of legalized slaughter. I see 
it in the music, which represents the progress of the battle ; 
and where, after being inspired by the trumpet-notes of 
preparation, the whole beauty and tenderness of a drawing 
room are seen to bend over the sentimental entertainment ; 
nor do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the 
death tones of the thickening contest, and the moans of the 
wounded men, as they fade away upon the ear, and sink 
into lifeless silence. All, all goes to prove what strange 
and half-sighted creatures we are. Were it not so, war 
could never have been seen in any other aspect than that of 
unmingled hatefulness : and I can look to nothing but to 
the progress of Christian sentiment upon earth, to arrest 
the strong current of its popular and prevailing partiality for 
war. 



CARDINAL WOLSEY AND CROMWELL. Shakspeare. 

Wol. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness. 
This is the state of man : to day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot — 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
These many summers in a sea of glory ; 
But far beyond my depth : my high blown pride 
At length broke under me, and now has left me, 



192 

Weary and old with service, to the mercy 

Of a rude stream that must forever hide me. 

Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! 

I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched 

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! 

There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 

That sweet regard of princes, and his ruin, 

More pangs and fears than war or women have ; 

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. [Enter Cromwell. 

Why, how now, Cromwell ? 

Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir. 

Wol. What, amaz'd 
At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder 
A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weep, 
I 'm fallen indeed. 

Crom. How does your Grace ? 

Wol. Why, well ; 
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
I know myself now, and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities ; 
A still and quiet conscience. The king has eas'd me, 
I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders, 
These ruined pillars, out of pity taken 
A load would sink a navy : too much honour. 
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! 

Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it. 

Wol. I hope I have : I'm able, now, methinks, 
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, 
T' endure more miseries, and greater far, 
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 
What news abroad ? 

Crom. The heaviest and the worst 
Is your displeasure with the king. 

Wol. God bless him ! 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Lord Chancellor in your place. 

Wol. That's somewhat sudden 

But he's a learned man. May he continue 

Long in his highness' favour, and do justice, 

For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, 



orator's own book. 193 

When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him ! 
What more ? 

Cro7n. That Cranmer is returned with welcome : 
InstalFd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That's news indeed! 

Crom. Last, that the lady Anne, 
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
This day was view'd in open as his queen, 
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: O 

< Cromwell ! 
The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost forever. 
No sun shall ever usher forth my honours, 
Or. gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell ; 
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master : seek the king — 
(That sun, I pray, may never set !) I've told him 
What and how true thou art ; he will advance thee ; 
Some little memory of me will stir him, 
(I know his noble nature) not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell ; 
Neglect him not ; make use now and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Crom. Oh, my lord ! 
Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master? 
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord ! 
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers, 
Forever and forever shall be yours. 

Wol. Cromwell — I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries — but thou hast forc'd me, 

Out of thy honest truth to play the woman 

Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Of me must more be heard — say then I taught thee ; 
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory, 
17 



194 orator's own book. 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 

Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; 

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 

(Though the image of his Maker) hope to win by't ? 

Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that wait thee : 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not. 

Let* all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 

Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king — ■ — 

And prithee lead me in — 

There take an inventory of all I have ; 

To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe, 

And mine integrity to heaven is all 

I dare now call my own. Oh, Cromwell, Cromwell ! 

Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal 

I serv'd my king — he would not in mine age 

Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Crom. Good Sir, have patience. 

Wol. So I have. Farewell 
The hopes of court ! My hopes in heaven do dwell. 



SENECA S ADDRESS TO THE EMPEROR NERO. Tacitus. 

May it please the imperial majesty of Caesar, favourably 
to accept the humble submissions and grateful acknowledg- 
ments of the weak though faithful guide of his youth. 

It is now a great many years since I first had the honour 
of attending your imperial majesty as preceptor. And your 
bounty has rewarded my labours with such affluence, as has 
drawn upon me, what I had reason to expect, the envy of 
many of those persons, who are always ready to prescribe 
to their prince where to bestow, and where to withhold his 
favours. Its well known, that your illustrious ancestor, 
Augustus, bestowed on his deserving favourites, Agrippa 
and Maecenas, honours and emoluments, suitable to the dig- 
nity of the benefactor, and to the services of the receivers ; 



orator's own book. 195 

nor has his conduct been blamed. My employment about 
your imperial majesty has, indeed, been purely domestic ; 
I have neither headed your armies, nor assisted at your 
councils. But you know, sir (though there are some who 
do not seem to attend to it,) that a prince may be served in 
different ways, some more, others less conspicuous; and 
that the latter may be to him as valuable as the former. 

" But what !" say my enemies, " shall a private person, of 
equestrian rank, and a provincial by birth, be advanced to 
an equality with the patricians ? Shall an upstart, of no 
name nor family, rank with those who can, by the statues 
which make the ornament of their palaces, reckon back- 
ward a line of ancestors, long enough to tire out the fasti?* 
Shall a philosopher who has written for others precepts of 
moderation, and contempt of all that is external, himself live 
in affluence and luxury ? Shall he purchase estates and lay 
out money at interest ? Shall he build palaces, plant gardens, 
and adorn a country at his own expense, and for his own 
pleasure?" 

Caesar has given royally, as became imperial magnificence. 
Seneca has received what his prince bestowed ; nor did he 
ever ask ; he is only guilty of — not refusing. Caesar's rank 
places him above the reach of invidious malignity. Seneca 
is not, nor can be, high enough to despise the envious. 
As the overloaded soldier, or traveller, would be glad to be 
relieved of his burden, so I, in this last stage of the journey 
of life, now that I find myself unequal to the lightest cares, 
beg, that Caesar would kindly ease me of the trouble of my 
unwieldy wealth. I beseech him to restore to the imperial 
treasury, from whence it came, what is to me superfluous 
and cumbrous. The time and the attention, which I am 
now obliged to bestow upon my villa and my gardens, I 
shall be glad to apply to the regulation of my mind. Caesar 
is in the flower of life ; long may he be equal to the toils 
of government ! His goodness will grant to his worn-out 
servant leave to retire. It will not be derogatory from 
Caesar's greatness to have it said, that he bestowed favours 
on some, who, so far from being intoxicated with them, 
showed — that they could be happy, when (at their own 
request) divested of them. 

* The fasti, or calendars, of the ancients, had, as our almanacs, 
tables of kings, consuls, &c 



196 orator's own book. 



DEATH OF BERTRAM.— -Walter Scott 

The outmost crowd have heard a sound, 
Like horse's hoof on hardened ground : 
Nearer it came, and yet more near, 
The very death's-men paused to hear. 
*Tis in the church-yard now — the tread 
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! 
Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, 
Return the tramp in varied tone. 
All eyes upon the gateway hung, 
When through the Gothic arch there sprung 
A horseman armed, at headlong speed — 
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. 
Fire from the flinty floor was spurned, 
The vaults unwonted clang returned ! 
One instant's glance around he threw, 
From saddle-bow his pistol drew. 
Grimly determined was his look ! 
His charger. with the spurs he strook — 
All scattered backward as he came, 
For all knew Bertram Rosingham ! 
Three bounds that noble courser gave ; 
The first has reached the central nave, 
The second cleared the chancel wide, 
The third — he was at WyclifFe's side. 
Full leveled at the Baron's head, 
Rung the report — the bullet sped — 
And to his long account, and last, 
Without a groan, dark Oswald past ! 
All was so quick, that it might seem 
A flash of lightning or a dream. 
While yet the smoke the deed conceals, 
Bertram his ready charger wheels ; 
But foundered on the pavement floor 
The steed, and down the rider bore, 
And, bursting in the headlong sway, 
The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 
'T was while he toiled him to be freed, 
And with the rein to raise the steed, 
That from amazement's iron trance 
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once 4 



orator's own book. 197 



Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows 
Hailed upon Bertram as he rose : 
A score of pikes with each a wound, 
Bore down and pinned him to the ground. 
But still his struggling force he rears, 
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears; 
Thrice from assailants shook him free, 
Once gained his feet and twice his knee. 
By tenfold odds oppressed at length, 
Despite his struggles and his strength, 
He took a hundred mortal wounds, 
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds ; 
And when he died, his parting groan 
Had more of laughter than of moan ! 
—They gazed, as when a lion dies, 
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes, 
But bend their weapons on the slain, 
Lest the grim king should rouse again ! 
Then blow and insult some renewed, 
And from the trunk the head had hewed, 
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ; 
A mantle o'er the corse he laid — 
" Fell as he was in act and mind, 
He left no bolder heart behind ; 
Then give him for a soldier meet, 
A soldier's cloak for winding sheet." — 



THE DANGER OF ALTERING THE CONSTITUTION. 

Extract from Governeur Morris's Speech on the Judiciary, delivered in the United States 
Senate, January 14, 1802. 

Mr. President, — Is there a member of this house who 
can lay his hand on his heart and say, that consistently 
with the plain words of our constitution, we have a right to 
repeal this law ? I believe not. And if we undertake to 
construe this constitution to our purposes, and say that pub- 
lic opinion is to be our judge, there is an end to all consti- 
tutions. To what will not this dangerous doctrine lead? 
Should it to-day be the popular wish to destroy the first 
magistrate, you can destroy him : and should he to-morrow 

17 * 



198 orator's OWN BOOK. 

be able to conciliate to himself the will of the people, and 
lead them to wish for your destruction, it is easily effected. 
Adopt this principle, and the whim of the moment will not 
only be the law, but the constitution of our country. 

Some, indeed, flatter themselves, that our destiny will be 
like that of Rome. Such, indeed, it might be, if we had 
the same wise, but vile aristocracy, under whose guidance 
they became the masters of the world. But we have not 
that strong aristocratic arm, which can seize a wretched 
citizen, scourged almost to death by a remorseless creditor, 
turn him into the ranks, and bid him, as a soldier, bear our 
eagle in triumph round the globe ! I hope, indeed, we shall 
never have such an abominable institution. But what, I 
ask, will be the situation of these states, (organized as they 
now are,) if by the dissolution of our national compact, they 
be left to themselves ? What is the probable result ? We 
shall either be the victims of foreign intrigue, and split into 
factions, fall under the domination of a foreign power, or 
else, after the misery and torment of civil war, become the 
subjects of an usurping military despot. What but this 
compact, what but this specific part of it, can save us from 
ruin ? The judicial power, that fortress of the constitution, 
is now to be overturned. Yes, with honest Ajax, I would 
not only throw a shield before it, I would build around it a 
wall of brass. But I am too weak to defend the rampart 
against the host of assailants. I must call to my assistance 
their good sense, their patriotism, and their virtue. Do not, 
gentlemen, suffer the rage of passion to drive reason from 
her seat. If this law be indeed bad, let us join to remedy 
the defects. Has it been passed in a manner which wounded 
your pride, or roused your resentment? Have, I conjure 
you, the magnanimity to pardon that offence. I entreat, I 
implore you, to sacrifice those angry passions to the inte- 
rests of our country. Pour out this pride of opinion on the 
altar of patriotism. Let it be an expiatory libation for the 
weal of America. Do not, I beseech you, do not suffer that 
pride to plunge us all into the abyss of ruin. Indeed, indeed, 
it will be but of little, very little avail, whether one opinion 
or the other be right or wrong ; it will heal no wounds, it 
will pay no debts, it will rebuild no ravaged towns. Do not 
rely on that popular will, which has brought us frail beings 
into political existence. That opinion is but a changeable 
thing. It will soon change. This very measure will 



orator's own book. 199 

change it. You will be deceived. Do not, I beseech you, 
in reliance on a foundation so frail, commit the dignity, the 
harmony, the existence of our nation, to the wild wind. 
Trust not your treasure to the waves. Throw not your 
compass and your charts into the ocean. Do not believe 
that its billows will waft you into port. Indeed, indeed, you 
will be deceived. Cast not away this only anchor of our 
safety. I have seen its progress. I know the difficulties 
through which it was obtained : I stand in the presence of 
almighty God, and of the world, and I declare to you, that 
if you lose this charter, never! no, never will you get 
another ! We are now, perhaps, arrived at the parting 
point. Here, even here, we stand on the brink of fate. 
Pause — pause— for heaven's sake, pause ! ! 



DEATH S FINAL CONQUEST. Shirley. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armour against fate : 
Death lays his icy hands on kings : 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds : 
Upon Death's purple altar now 
See where the victor-victim bleeds. 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb : 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom, in the dust. 



200 orator's own book. 



DESCRIPTION OF THE BALLOT BY BEANS. — Burke. 

But, my lords, it seems all these defects in point of accu- 
sation, of defence, of trial and of judgment, as the ingenious 
gentlemen have argued, are cured by the magical virtue of 
those beans, by whose agency the whole business must be 
conducted. 

If the law had permitted a single word to be exchanged 
between the parties, the learned counsel confess that much 
difficulty might arise in the events which I have stated ; but 
they have found out that all these difficulties are prevented 
or removed by the beans and the ballot. According to these 
gentlemen, we are to suppose one of those unshaven dema- 
gogues, whom the learned counsel have so humorously de- 
scribed, rising in the commons when the name of Alderman 
James is sent down ; he begins by throwing out a torrent of 
seditious invective against the servile profligacy and lickerish 
venality of the board of aldermen — this he does by beans ; 
having thus previously inflamed the passions of his fellows, 
and somewhat exhausted his own, his judgment collects the 
reins that floated on the neck of his imagination, and he be- 
comes grave, compressed, sententious, and didactic ; he lays 
down the law of personal disability, and corporate crimi- 
nality, and corporate forfeiture, with great precision, with 
sound emphasis, and good discretion, to the great delight 
and edification of the assembly — and this he does by beans. 
He then proceeds, my lords, to state the specific charge 
against the unfortunate candidate for approbation, with all 
the artifice of malignity and accusation ; scalding the culprit 
in tears of affected pity, bringing forward the blackness of 
imputed guilt through the varnish of simulated commisera- 
tion ; bewailing the horror of his crime, that he may leave 
it without excuse ; and invoking the sympathy of his judges, 
that he may steel them against compassion — and this, my 
lords, the unshaved demagogue doth by beans. The ac- 
cused doth not appear in person, for he cannot leave his 
companions, nor by attorney, for his attorney could not be 
admitted — but he appears and defends by beans. At first, 
humble and deprecatory, he conciliates the attention of his 
judges to his defence, by giving them to hope that it may 



201 

be without effect ; he does not alarm them by any indis- 
creet assertion that the charge is false, but he slides uppn 
them arguments to show it improbable ; by degrees, how- 
ever he gains upon the assembly, and denies and refutes, 
and recriminates, and retorts — all by beans, — until at last 
he challenges his accuser to a trial, which is accordingly 
had, in the course of which the depositions are taken, the 
facts tried, the legal doubts exposed and explained — by 
beans ;— -and in the same manner the law is settled with an 
exactness and authority that remains a record of jurispru- 
dence, for the information of future ages ; while at the 
same time the "harmony" of the metropolis is attuned by 
the marvellous temperament of jarring discord; and the 
" good will" of the citizens is secured by the indissoluble 
bond of mutual crimination and reciprocal abhorrence. 

By this happy mode of decision, one hundred and forty- 
six causes of rejection, (for of so many do the commons 
consist, each of whom must be entitled to allege a distinct 
cause,) are tried in the course of a single day with satisfac- 
tion to all parties. 

With what surprise and delight must the heart of the for- 
tunate inventor have glowed, when he discovered those 
wonderful instruments of wisdom and of eloquence, which, 
without being obliged to commit the precious extracts of 
science or persuasion, to the faithless and fragile vehicles 
of words or phrases, can serve every process of composition 
or abstraction of ideas, and every exigency of discourse or 
argumentation, by the resistless strength and infinite variety 
of beans, white or black, or boiled or raw ; displaying all 
the magic of their powers in the mysterious exertion of 
dumb investigation and mute discussion ; of speechless ob- 
jection, and tongue-tied refutation ! 

Nor should it be forgotten, my lords, that this noble dis- 
covery does no little honour to the sagacity of the present 
age, by explaining a doubt that has for so many centuries 
perplexed the labour of philosophic inquiry ; and furnishing 
the true reason why the pupils of Pythagoras were prohib- 
ited the use of beans : it cannot, I think, my lords, be 
doubted, that the great author of the metempsychosis found 
out that those mystic powers of persuasion, which vulgar 
naturalists supposed to remain lodged in minerals, or fossils, 
had really transmigrated into beans ; and he could not, there- 



202 

fore but see that it would have been fruitless to preclude his 
disciples from mere oral babbling, unless he had also de- 
barred them from the indulgence of vegetable loquacity. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. Halleck. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour, 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power ; 
In dreams, through camp and court he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring, — 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, 

" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 
And death-shots falling thick and fast, 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band ; 

" Strike — till the last armed foe expires, 
Strike — for your altars and your fires, 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires. 

God — and your native land !" 

They fought like brave men, long and well, 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 



orator's own book. 203 

Come to the bridal chamber, death ! 

Come to the mother, when she feels 
For the first time her first-born's breath : — 

Come when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; — 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, 
And thou art terrible : the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
We tell thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's— 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. 



FALSTAFF S ENCOMIUM ON SACK. Skakspeare. 

A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It 
ascends me into the brain : dries me there, all the foolish, 
dull, and crudy vapours which environ it: makes it appre- 
hensive, quick, inventive : full of nimble, fiery, and delecta- 
ble shapes ; which delivered over to the voice, the tongue 
which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second 
property of your excellent sherris, is the warming of the 
blood ; which, before, cold and settled, left the liver white 
and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. 
But the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the 



204 

inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth the face ; 
which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little 
kingdom, man, to arm : and then, the vital commoners, and 
inland petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the 
heart! who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any 
deed of courage — and this valour comes of sherris. So that 
skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it 
awork ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, 
till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof 
comes it that Prince Harry is valiant ; for the cold blood he 
did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, 
and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with drinking 
good, and good store of fertile sherris. If I had a thousand 
sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should 
be — to forswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to 

Sack. Henry IV. 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CATO. Pope. 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius and to mend the heart, 
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold— 
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stream through every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
And foes to virtue, wonder'd how they wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move 
The hero's glory or the virgin's love: 
In pitying love we but our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its wo. 
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause- 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: 
He bids your breast with ancient ardours rise, 
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. 
Virtue confess' d in human shape he draws, 
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was ; 
No common object to your sight displays, 
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys ; 
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
And greatly falling with a falling state ! 



205 



While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his country's cause ? 
Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ? 
E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, 
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, 
Ignobly vain, and impotently great, 
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state : 
As her dead father's rev'rend image pass'd, 
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast, 
The triumph ceas'd — tears gush'd from every eye ; 
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by : 
Her last good man, dejected Rome ador'd, 
And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword. 

Britons attend. Be worth like this appro v'd, 
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd. 
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued. 
Our scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song. 
Dare to have sense yourselves : assert the stage ; 
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage. 
Such plays alone should please a British ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. 



HANNIBAL TO HIS SOLDIERS. Livy. 

I know not, soldiers, whether you or your prisoners be 
encompassed by fortune with the stricter bonds and necessi- 
ties. Two seas enclose you on the right and left; — not 
a ship to flee to for escaping. Before you is the Po, a river 
broader and more rapid than the Rhone ; behind you are the 
Alps, over which, even when your numbers were undi- 
minished, you were hardly able to force a passage. Here 
then, soldiers, you must either conquer or die, the very first 
hour you meet the enemy. But the same fortune which has 
thus laid you under the necessity of fighting, has set before 
your eyes those rewards of victory, than which no men are 
ever wont to wish for greater from the immortal gods. 
Should we by our valour recover only Sicily and Sardinia, 
which were ravished from our fathers, those would be no 
18 



206 orator's own book. 

inconsiderable prizes. Yet, what are these ? The Wealth 
of Rome, whatever riches she has heaped together in the 
spoils of nations, all these, with the masters of them, 
will be yours. You have been long enough employed in 
driving the cattle upon the vast mountains of Lusitania and 
Celtiberia ; you have hitherto met with no reward worthy 
of the labours and dangers you have undergone. The time 
is now come to reap the full recompense of your toilsome 
marches over so many mountains and rivers, and through 
so many nations, all of them in arms. This is the place 
which fortune has appointed to be the limits of your labours ; 
it is here that you will finish your glorious warfare, and 
receive an ample recompense of your completed service. 
For I would not have you imagine, that victory will be as 
difficult as the name of a Roman war is great and sounding. 
It has often happened that a despised enemy has given a 
bloody battle, and the most renowned kings and nations 
have by a small force been overthown. And if you but take 
away the glitter of the Roman name, what is there, wherein 
they may stand in competition with you ? For (to say 
nothing of your service in war for twenty years together 
with so much valour and success) from the very pillars of 
Hercules, from the ocean, from the utmost bounds of the 
earth, through so many warlike nations of Spain and Gaul, 
are you not come hither victorious ? And with whom are you 
now to fight ? With raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, 
beaten, vanquished, besieged by the Gauls the very last 
summer, an army unknown to their leader, and unac- 
quainted with him. 

Or shall I, who was born I might almost say, but cer- 
tainly brought up, in the tent of my father, that most excel- 
lent general, — shall I, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul, and 
not only of the Alpine nations, but, which is greater yet, of 
the Alps themselves, — shall I compare myself with this half- 
year captain ? A captain before whom should one place the 
two armies without their ensigns, I am persuaded he would 
not know to which of them he is consul ! I esteem it no 
small advantage, soldiers, that there is not one among you, 
who has not often been an eye-witness of my exploits in 
war ; not one of whose valour I myself have not been a ' 
spectator, so as to be able to name the times and places of 
his noble achievements ; that with soldiers, whom 1 have a 



207 

thousand times praised and rewarded, and whose pupil I 
was, before I became their general, I shall march against an 
army of men, strangers to one another. 

On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of 
courage and strength ; a veteran infantry ; a most gallant 
cavalry ; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant ; you, 
Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but the 
justest anger impels to battle. The hope, the courage of 
assailants, is always greater than of those who act upon the 
defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come 
down upon Italy ; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, indig- 
nities fire your minds, and spur you forward to revenge . — 
First they demanded me ; that I, your general, should be 
delivered up to them ; next, all of you, who had fought at 
the siege of Saguntum ; and we were to be put to death by 
the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! Every 
thing must be yours, and at your disposal ! You are to pre- 
scribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we 
shall make peace ! You are to set us bounds ; to shut us up 
within hills and rivers ; but you — you are not to observe the 
limits which yourselves have fixed ! Pass not the Iberus. 
What next ? Touch not the Saguntines ; Sagustum is upon 
the Iberus, move not a step towards that city. Is it a small 
matter then, that you have deprived us of our ancient pos- 
sessions, Sicily and Sardinia ; you would have Spain too ? 
Well, we shall yield Spain ; and then — you will pass into 
Africa. Will pass, did I say ? — This very year they or- 
dered one of their consuls into Africa, the other into Spain. 
No, soldiers, there is nothing left for us but what we can 
vindicate with our swords. Come on, then. Be men. The 
Romans may with more safety be cowards : they have their 
own country behind them, have places of refuge to flee to, 
and are secure from danger in the roads thither ; but for you 
there is no middle fortune between death and victory. Let 
this be but well fixed in your minds, and once again, I say, 
you are conquerors. 



208 orator's own book 



ROLLA AND THE SENTINEL. 

FROM THE TRAGEDY OF " PIZARRO," BY KOTZEBUE ; ACT 4, 

SCENE 1. 

[A sentinel ;s walking guard before the dungeon of Alonzo. Rolla, his friend, enters, 
in order to gain admission, to save him.] 

Rol. Inform me, friend , is not Alonzo, the Spanish pri- 
soner, confined in this dungeon ? 

Sen. He is. 

Rol. I must speak with him. 

Sen. You must not. 
. Rol. He is my friend. 

Sen. Not if he were thy brother. 

Rol. What is to be his fate ? 

Sen. He dies at sun-rise. 

Rol. Ha ! then I am come in time, 

Sen. Just — to witness his death. 

Rol. Soldier, I must speak with him. 

Sen. Back, back — it is impossible ! 

Rol. I do entreat thee, but for one moment ! 

Sen. Thou ^ftreatest in vain — my orders are most strict. 

R°Je: 'Even now I saw a messenger go hence. 
0S ^ Sen. He brought a pass which we are all accustomed to 
obey. 

Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold — look on these 
precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for 
thee and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them, 
they are thine — Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo. 

Sen. Away ! Avouldst thou corrupt me ? Me ? an old 
Castilian ? I know my duty better. 

Rol. Soldier ! hast thou a wife ? 

Sen. I have. 

Rol. Hast thou children ? 

Sen. Four honest lovely boys. 

Rol. Where didst thou leave them ? 

Sen. In my native village ! even in the cot where myseli 
was born. 

Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife 1 

Sen. Do I love them ! God knows my heart — I do. 

Rol. Soldier ! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel 
death in this strange land—what would by thy last request ? 






orator's own book. 209 

Sen. That some of my comrades should carry my dying 
blessing to my wife and children. 

Rol. Oh ! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate, and 
should there be told — thy fellow soldier dies at sun-rise, yet 
thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his 
dying blessing to his poor children, or his wretched wife, 
what wouldst thou think of him who thus could drive thy 
comrade from the door? 

Sen. How ! 

Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to 
receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessings of my 
friend. 

Sen. Go in. — {Retires.) 

Rol. Oh, holy nature ! thou dost never plead in vain. 
There is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form and life, 
human or savage — native of the forest wild, or giddy air — 
around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined, 
of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy 
will to draw them back to thee. Yes, now he is beyond 
the porch, barring the outer gate ! Alonzo ! Alonzo ! my 
friend ! Ha ! in gentle sleep ! Alonzo — rise ! 

M. How ! is my hour elapsed ? Well — {returning from 
the recess) — I am ready. 

Rol. Alonzo — know me. 

M. What voice is that ? 

Rol. ' Tis Holla's. 

Al. Rolla ! my friend ! — {Embraces him.) — Heavens ! — 
how couldst thou pass the guard 1 Did this habit — 

Rol. There is not a moment to be lost in words. This 
disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed 
our field of battle ; it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon ; 
now take it thou, and fly. 

Jll. And Rolla— 

Rol. Will remain here in thy place. 

Al. And die for me ? No ! rather eternal tortures rack 
me. 

Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks 
not Holla's ; and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me ; 
or should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain, stand- 
ing alone amid the sandy desert. Nothing seeks or lives 
beneath my shelter. Thou art a husband and a father ; the 
being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy 
18* 



210 orator's own book, 

life. Go ! go ! Alonzo ! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora 
and thy child ! 

JLl. Urge me not thus, my friend ; I had prepared to die 
in peace. 

Roil. To die in peace ! devoting her thou'st sworn to live 
for, to madness, misery and death ! for be assured, the 
state I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return. 

M. Oh God ! 

Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. 
I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his 
word and shrunk from its fulfilment. And by the heart of 
truth I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy 
friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in thee no 
power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence ; and 
thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish 
by thy side, with the assured conviction, that Cora and thy 
child — are lost forever ! 

M. Oh, Rolla ! thou distractest me ! 

Rol. A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The dawn 
approaches. Fear not for me ; I will treat with Pizarro as 
for surrender and submission ; I shall gain time, doubt not, 
while thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, 
may'st at night return, release thy friend, and bear him back 
in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo ! Even now I hear 
the frantic Cora call thee ! Haste ! — Haste ! — Haste ! 

Jil. Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour 
and from right. 

Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend ? 

M. Oh ! my preserver ! — {Embracing him.) 

Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go, 
I am rewarded ! — {Throws the Friar's garment over Alon- 
zo.) There, conceal thy face ; and, that they may not 
clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee ! 

SI. At night we meet again. Then, so aid me, heaven, 
1 return to save, or perish with thee ! — {Exit.) 

Rol. — {Alone.) — He has passed the outer porch — he is 
safe ! He will soon embrace his wife and child ! Now, 
Cora, didst thou not wrong me ? This is the first time, 
throughout my life, I ever deceived man. Forgive me, God 
of truth ! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we 
shall meet again ! Yes — there ! — {Lifting his hands to 
heaven,) — assuredly we shall meet again ; there possess in 



211 



peace the joys of everlasting love and friendship — on earth 
imperfect and imbittered. I will retire, lest the guard re- 
turn before Alonzo may have passed their lines. — {Retires 
into the recess.) 



THE RIGHT OF SELF-DEFENCE AGAINST THE ACCUSATIONS 
OF PARLIAMENT. 

Extract from Mr. Erskine's Speech on the Trial of Stockdale. * 

Gentlemen of the Jury, — Mr. Stockdale, who is brought 
before you as a criminal for the publication of this book, a 
review of the articles of impeachment against Mr. Hast- 
ings, has by employing me as his advocate, reposed what 
must appear to many an extraordinary degree of confidence ; 
since, although he well knows that I am personally con- 
nected in friendship with most of those whose conduct and 
opinions are principally arraigned by its author, he neverthe- 
less commits to my hands his defence and justification. Now 
the question, gentlemen, you have to try upon all this matter 
is extremely simple. It is neither more nor less than this : 
At a time when the charges against Mr. Hastings were, 
by the implied consent of the Commons, in every hand and 
on every table ; when, by their managers, the lightning of 
eloquence was continually consuming him, and flashing in 
the eyes of the public ; — when every man was, with per- 
fect impunity, saying, and writing, and publishing, just 
what he pleased of the supposed plunderer and devastator of 
nations ; would it have been criminal in Mr. Hastings 
himself to have reminded the public that he was a native of 
this free land, entitled to the common protection of her jus- 
tice, and that he had a defence in his turn to offer them, the 
outlines of which he implored them in the mean time to re- 

* When Warren Hastings, Governor General of India, was im- 
peached by the House of Commons, the articles of impeachment 
were drawn up by Mr. Burke ; and not only were the allegations 
specified, but they were embellished with all the eloquence of that 
gifted orator. The pamphlet having been extensively circulated 
throughout the kingdom, the Rev. Mr. Logan, a Scotch clergyman, 
drew up a Review of the articles of Impeachment, and carried it 
for publication to Mr. Stockdale, an eminent bookseller in London. 
For the publication of this pamphlet, Mr. Fox moved in the House 
of Commons, that Mr. Stockdale be prosecuted. 



212 orator's own book. 

ceive, as an antidote to the unlimited and unpunished poison 
in circulation against him 1 This is, gentlemen, without 
colour or exaggeration, the true question you are to decide. 

Because I assert, without the hazard of contradiction, that 
if Mr. Hastings himself could have stood justified or ex- 
cused in your eyes for publishing this volume in his own 
defence, the author, if he wrote it bona fide* to defend him, 
must stand equally excused and justified : and if the author 
be justified, the publisher cannot be criminal, unless you 
have evidence that it was published by him, with a dif- 
ferent spirit and intention from those in which it was 
written. 

The question, therefore, gentlemen, is correctly what I 
just have stated it to be. Could Mr. Hastings have been 
condemned to infamy for writing this book ? Gentlemen, I 
tremble with indignation to be driven to put such a question 
in England. Shall it be endured, that a subject of this coun- 
try may be impeached by the Commons for the transactions 
of twenty years ; that the accusation shall spread as wide as 
the region of letters ; that the accused shall stand day after 
day, and year after year, as a spectacle before the public, 
which shall be kept in a perpetual state of inflammation 
against him, yet that he shall not, without the severest pen- 
alties, be permitted to submit any thing to the judgment of 
mankind in his defence ? If this be law, (which it is for 
you this day to decide,) such a man has no trial : this 
great hall, built by our fathers for English justice, is no lon- 
ger a court, but an altar; and an Englishman, instead of 
being judged in it by God and his country, is a victim and 
a sacrifice. 



GENERAL WASHINGTON S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS, 

Delivered before the Battle of Long Island, in 1776. 

The time is now near at hand, which must probably 
determine whether Americans are to be freemen or slaves ; 
whether they are to have any property they can call their 
own ; whether their houses and farms are to be pillaged and 
destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of wretched- 
ness, from which no human efforts will deliver them. The 

* Bona fide, in good faith, sincerely, honestly. 



213 

fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the 
courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelent- 
ing enemy leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance, 
or the most abject submission. We have therefore to resolve 
to conquer or die. 

Our own, our country's honour, calls upon us for a vigor- 
ous and manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, We 
shall become infamous to the whole world. Let us then 
rely on the goodness of our cause, and the aid of the Su- 
preme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and 
encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all 
our countrymen are now upon us, and we shall have their 
blessings and praises, if happily we are the instruments of 
saving them from the tyranny meditated against them.— Let 
us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show 
the whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on 
his own ground, is superior to any slavish mercenary on 
earth. 

Liberty, property, life and honour are all at stake ; upon 
your courage and conduct, rest the hopes of our bleeding 
and insulted country ; our wives, children and parents, 
expect safety from us only ; and they have every reason to 
believe, that Heaven will crown with suecess so just a cause. 

The enemy will endeavour to intimidate by show and 
appearance; but remember, they have been repulsed on 
various occasions by a few brave Americans. Their cause 
is bad — their men are conscious of it ; and, if opposed with 
firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our advan- 
tage of works and knowledge of the ground, the victory is 
most assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and 
attentive — wait for orders- — and reserve his fire until he is 
sure of doing execution. 



SCENE OF FILIAL AFFECTION. Shakspeare 

Lear, Cordelia, Kent and Physician. 

Cor. O my dear father ! Restoration, hang 
Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters 
Have in thy reverence made ! 



214 orator's own book. 

Kent. Kind and dearest princess ! 
Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face 
To be expos 'd against the warring winds ? 
To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder ? 
In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross lightning ? To watch (poor pardu !) 
With this thin helm ? My very enemy's dog, 
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
Against my fire: and wast thou fain, poor father, 
To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn, 
In short and musty straw ? alack, alack ! 
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once, 
Had not concluded — Ah ! he wakes ; speak to him. 
Phys. Madam, do you, 'tis fittest. 
Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty ? 
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave ; 
Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound 
Upon a wheel of fire ; that mine own tears 
Do scald like molten lead. 
Cor. Sir, do you know me ? 

Lear. You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ? 
Cor. Still, still, far wide— 

Phys. He 's scarce awake ; let him alone awhile. 
Lear. Where have I been ? where am I ? fair daylight ? 
I 'm mightily abus'd; I should even die with pity 
To see another thus. I know not what to say ; 
I will not swear these are my hands: let's see, 
I feel this pin-prick : would I were assur'd 
Of my condition. 

Cor. look upon me, sir, 
And hold your hand in benediction o'er me. 
No, sir, you must not kneel. 

Lear. Pray do not mock me ; 
I am a very foolish fond old man, 
Fourscore and upward ; and, to deal plainly, 
I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks I should know you, and know this man ; 
Yet I am doubtful ; for I'm mainly ignorant, 
What place this is ; and all the skill I have 
Remembers not these garments : nay, I know not 
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me, 



215 

For as I am a man, I think, this lady 
To be my child Cordelia. 

Cor. And so I am; I am — 

Lear. Be your tears wet ? yes, faith : I pray you, weep 
not. 
If you have poison for me, I will drink it ; 
I know you do not love me ; for your sisters 
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. 
You have some cause, they have not. 

Cor. No cause, no cause. 

Lear. Am I in France ? 

Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. 

Lear. Do not abuse me. 

Phys. Be comforted, good madam ;■ 

Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more 
Till further settling. 

Cor. Will't please your highness walk? 

Lear. You must bear with me ; 
Pray you now forget and forgive ; 
I am old and foolish. 



A SISTER PLEADING FOR THE LIFE OF A CONDEMNED BROTHER* 

Shakspcare. 

Isabella and Angelo. 

Jsab. I am a woful suitor to your honour, 
Please but your honour hear me. 

Ang. Well; what's your suit? 

Isab. There is a vice that most 1 do abhor, 
And most desire should meet the blow of justice, 
For which I would not plead, but that I must. 

Ang. Well ; the matter ? 

hah. I have a brother is condemn' d to die ; 
I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 
And not my brother. 

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it? 
Why, every fault's condemn' d ere it be done ; 
Mine were the very cipher of a function, 
To find the faults, whose fine stands in record. 
And let go by the actor. 

Isab. O just, but severe law ! 



215 

I had a brother then ; Heaven keep your honour ! 

Must he needs die ? 

Jlng. Maiden, no remedy. 

Isab. Yes ; 1 do think that you might pardon him ; 
And neither Heav'n nor man grieve at the mercy. 

Jlng. I will not do't. 

Isab. But can you, if you would? 

Jlng. Look, M^hat I will not, that I cannot do. 

Isab. But might you do 't, and do the w rid no wrong. 
If so your heart were touch' d with that remorse, 
As mine is to him ? 

Jlng. He 's sentenc'd ; 'tis too late. 

Isab. Too late ? Why no ; I that do speak a word, 
May call it back again : well believe this, 
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
Become them with one half so good a grace, 
As mercy does. If he had been as you, 
And you as he, you wouxd have slipt like him ; 
But he, like you, would not have been so stern. 

Jlng. Pray you, begone. 

Isab, I would to Heav'n I had your potency, 
And you were Isabel ; should it then be thus ? 
No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge, 
And what a prisoner. 

Jlng. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, 
And you but waste your words. 

Isab. Alas ! alas ! 
Why, all the souls that are, were forfeit once : 
And He, that might the 'vantage best have took, 
Found out the remedy. How would you be, 
If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
But judge you as you are ? Oh, think on that ; 
And mercy then will breathe within ycur lips, 
Like man new made. 

Jlng. Be you content, fair maid ; 
It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. 
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, 
It should be thus with him ; he dies to-morrow. 

Isab. To-morrow, oh ! that 's suddem Spare him, spare 
him. 



orator's own book. 217 

Good, good my lord, bethink you : 
Who is that hath died for this offence ? 
There 's many hath committed it. 

Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept ; 
Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, 
If the first man that did th' edict infringe, 
Had answer'd for his deed. Now, 't is awake, 
Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet r 
Looks in a glass that shows what future evils, 
Or new, or by remissness new-conceiv'd, 
And so in progress to be hatch'd and born, 
Are now to have no successive degrees ; 
But ere they live, to end. 

Isab. Yet show some pity. 

Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ; 
For then I pity those I do not know, 
Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall ; 
And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, 
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; 
Your brother dies to-morrow ; be content. 

Isab. So you must be the first that gives this sentence ; 
And he, that suffers: oh, 'tis excellent 
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. 

Merciful Heaven ! 

Thou rather with thy sharp and sulph'rous bolt 

Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, 

Than the soft myrtle : O, but man ! proud man, 

Dress'd in a little brief authority, 

Most ignorant of what he 's most assur'd, 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heav'n, 

As makes the angels weep. 

We cannot weigh our brother with yourself : 

Great men may jest with saints ; 'tis wit in them ; 

But, in the less, foul profanation. 

That in the captain's but a choleric word, 

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. 

Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? 

Isab. Because authority, though it err like others, 
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, 
That skins the vice o ? th' top : go to your bosom ; 
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know 
19 



218 

That's like my brother's fault ; if it confess 
A natural guiltiness, such as is his, 
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
Against my brother's life. 

Ang. She speaks, 'tis such sense, 
That my sense bleeds with it. Fare you well. 

Isab. Gentle, my lord, turn back. 

Ang. I will bethink me ; come again to-morrow. 

Isab. Hark, how I '11 bribe you : good my lord, turn 
back. 

Ang. How bribe me ? 

Isab. Ay, with such gifts, that Heav'n shall share with 
you. 
Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, 
Or stones, whose rate are either rich or poor, 
As fancy values them, but with true prayers, 
That shall be up at Heav'n, and enter there, 
Ere sun-rise ; prayers from preserved souls, 
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate 
To nothing temporal. 

Ang. Well, come to-morrow. 

Isab. Heav'n keep your honour safe I 

Ang. Amen. 
For I am that way going to temptation. 
Where prayers cross. 

Isab. At what hour to-morrow 
Shall I attend your lordship ? 

Ang. At any time 'fore noon. 

Isab. Save your honour. 



REFLECTIONS ON A WOUNDED STAG.— Shakspeare. 

Duke and Lord. 

Duke. Now, my comates, and brothers in exile, 
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp ? are not these woods 
More free from peril, than the envious court ? 
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, 
The season's difference ; as the icy phang, 
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 219 

Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, 

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, 

This is no flattery ; these are counsellors, 

That feelingly persuade me what I am. 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head : 

And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 

Come, shall we go, and kill us venison? 

And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, 
Being native burghers of this desert city, 
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads, 
Have their round haunches gor'd. 

Lord. Indeed, my lord, 
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that ; 
And in that kind swears you do more usurp 
Than doth your brother that has banish'd you. 
To-day my lord of Amiens, and myself, 
Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; 
To the which place a poor sequestered stag, 
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, 
Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord, 
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, 
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears 
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose 
In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool, 
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques ? 
Stood on th' extreraest verge of the swift brook, 
Augmenting it with tears. 

Duke. But what said Jaques ? 
Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 

Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes. 
First, for his weeping in the needless stream ; 
Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament, 
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
To that which had too much. Then being alone, 
Left and abandon' d of his velvet friends : 



220 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

'Tis right, quoth he, thus misery doth part 

The flux of company. Anon, a careless herd, 

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, 

And never stays to greet him : Ay, quoth Jaques, 

Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens, 

'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look 

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? 

Thus most invectively he pierceth through 

The body of the country, city, court, 

Yea, and of this our life ; swearing, that we 

Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, 

To fright the animals, and to kill them up 

In their assign'd and native dwelling place. 

Duke. And did you leave him in this contemplation ? 

Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting 
Upon the sobbing deer. 

Duke. Show me the place ; 
I love to cope him in these sullen fits, 
For then he's full of matter. 

Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. 



SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 

Sir Robert Bramble and Humphrey Dobbins. 

Sir R. I'll tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is 
not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I 
suppose you will maintain there is. 

Hum. Yes. 

Sir R. Yes ! is that the way you talk to me, you old 
boor ? What's my name 1 

Hum. Robert Bramble. 

Sir R. An't I a baronet ? Sir Robert Bramble, of Black- 
berry Hall, in the county of Kent ? 'T is time you should 
know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these 
thirty years : can you deny that ? 

Hum. Hem ! 

Sir R. Hem ! what do you mean by hem ? Open that 
rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk 
out of it. Why don't you answer my question ? 

Hum. Because if I contradict you I shall tell a lie, and 
when I agree with you, you are sure to fall out. 



221 

Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long en- 
deavouring to beat a few brains into your pate, that all your 
hair has tumbled off before my point is carried. 

Hum. What then ? Our parson says my head is an em- 
blem of both our honours. 

Sir JR. Ay ; because honours, like your head are apt to 
be empty. 

Hum. No ; but if a servant has grown bald under his 
master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, 
and regard for it on the other. 

Sir JR. Why to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as hon- 
est as a — pshaw ! the parson means to palaver us ; but to 
return to my position. I tell you I don't like your flat con- 
tradiction. 

Hum. Yes, you do. 

Sir R. I tell you I don't. I only love to hear men's 
arguments. I hate their flummery. 

Hum. What do you call flummery ? 

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead ! a dish too often served up by 
paltry poor men to paltry rich ones. 

Hum. I never serve it up to you. 

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description. 

Hum. Hem ! what is it ? 

Sir R. Sour crout, you old crab. 

Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many 
a year. 

Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. 
Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man 
says, I suspect he means to flatter him : now I am rich and 
hate flattery. Ergo— when a poor man subscribes to my 
opinion, I hate him. 

Hum. That's wrong. 

Sir R. Very well — negatur — now prove it. 

Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man. 

Sir R. You an't, you scoundrel. You know you shall 
never want while I have a shilling. 

Hum. Well then I am a poor 1 must be a poor man 

now, or I shall never get on. 

Sir. R Well, get on, be a poor man. 

Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and con- 
vince you you are wrong ; then you call yourself a block- 
head, and I am of your opinion ! now that's no flattery. 
19* 



222 orator's own book. 

Sir R. Why no ; but when a man 's of the same opinion 
with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an 
end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But 
where's my nephew, Frederic ? 

Hum. Been out these two hours. 

Sir R. An undutiful cub ! only arrived from Russia last 
night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he 's 
scampering over the fields like a Calmuc Tartar. 

Hum. He 's a fine fellow. 

Sir JR. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think 
he is a little like me, Humphrey ? 

Hum. No, not a bit ; you are as ugly an old man as ever 
I clapped my eyes on. 

Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there ? s no flat- 
tery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. 
His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit — Hum- 
phrey, you remember my brother Job ? 

Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia five-and-twenty 
years ago. 

Sir R. I did not drive him. 

Hum. Yes, you did. You would never let him be at 
peace in the way of argument. 

Sir R. At peace ! zounds, he would never go to war. 

Hum. He had the merit to be calm. 

Sir R. So has a duck pond. He received my arguments 
with his mouth open, like a poor box gaping for half pence, 
and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resist- 
ance. We couldn't disagree and so we parted. 

Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for 
a quiet life. 

Sir R. A quiet life ! why he married the moment he got 
there, tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian mer- 
chant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, 
potashes, tallow, linen and leather ; what's the consequence ? 
thirteen months ago he broke. 

Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the busi- 
ness for him. 

Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as he 
broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me 
for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress I must not 
neglect his son. 

Hum. Here comes his son ; that 's Mr. Frederic. 



orator's own book. 223 

Enter Frederic. 

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning ! your park is 
nothing but beauty. 

Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty ? I told you 
to stay in doors till I got up. 

Fred. So you, did, but I entirely forgot it. 

Sir R. And pray what made you forget it? 

Fred. The sun. 

Sir R. The sun ! he 's mad ! you mean the moon, I 
believe. 

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a 
fine spring morning, upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. 
The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park 
was so gay, that I took a leap out of your old balcony, made 
your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all 
around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you 
were snoring in bed, uncle. 

Sir R. Oh, Oh ! So the effect of English sunshine upon 
a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony and worry 
my deer. 

Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me. 

Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, 
unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy. 

Fred. 1 hate legacies. 

Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid 
tokens at least. 

Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle ; they are posthu- 
mous despatches, affection sends to gratitude, to inform us 
we have lost a gracious friend. 

Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues ! 

Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morn- 
ing. I will obey you better in future ; for they tell me you 
are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman. 

Sir R. Now who had the familiar impudence to tell you 
that. 

Fred. Old rusty, there. 

Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you did n't ? 

Hum. Yes, but I did though. 

Fred. Yes, he did, and on that score I shall be anxious to 
show you obedience, for 't is as meritorious to attempt shar- 
ing a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon 



224 orator's own book. 

a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full 
breast high, uncle ; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities 
at the pocket. 

Sir R. [Shaking him by the hand."] Jump out of every 
window I have in the house, hunt my deer into high fevers, 
my fine fellow. Ay hang it ! this is spunk and plain speak- 
ing. Give me a man who is always plumping his dissent 
to my doctrines smack in my teeth. 

Fred. 1 disagree with you there, uncle. 

Hum So do I. 

Fred. You, you forward puppy ! If you were not so old, 
I' d knock you down. 

Sir R. I '11 knock you down if you do. I wont have my 
servants thumped into dumb flattery ; I wont let you teach 
them to make silence a toad eater. 

Hum. Come, you 're ruffled. Let's go to the business of 
the morning. 

Sir R. Hang the business of the morning. Don't you 
see we are engaged in discussion. 1 hate the business of 
the morning. 

Hum. No you don't. 

SirR. Why don't I? 

Hum. Because it 's charity. 

Sir R. Pshaw, hang it. Well, we must not neglect the 
business ; if there be any distresses in the parish, read the 
morning list, Humphrey. 

Hum. [Reading.^ Jonathan Haggans, of Muck Mead, is 
put in prison. 

Sir R. Why, it was but last week, Gripe, the attorney, 
received two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds. 

Hum. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble ; so 
seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan 
into jail for the remainder. 

Sir R. A harpy ! I must relieve the poor fellow's dis- 
tress. 

Fred. And I must kick his attorney. 

Hum. The curate's horse is dead. 

Sir R. Pshaw ! there 's no distress in that. 

Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles 
every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a 
year. 

Sir R. Why wont Punmonk, the vicar, give him another 
nag? 



orator's own book. 225 

Hum. Because 't is cheaper to get another curate ready- 
mounted. 

Sir R. What 's the name of the black pad I purchased 
last Tuesday at Tunbridge ? 

Hum. Beelzebub. 

Sir R. Send Beelzebub to the curate, and tell him to 
work him as long as he lives. 

Fred. And if you have a tumble-down-tit, send him to the 
vicar, and give him a chance of breaking his neck. 

Sir R. What else? 

Hum. Somewhat out of the common — there 's one Lieu- 
tenant Worthington, a disabled officer, and a widower, come 
to lodge at farmer Harrowby's in the village ; he 's very 
poor, indeed, it seems ; but more proud than poor, and more 
honest than proud. 

Fred. That sounds like a noble character. 

Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance. 

Hum. He 'd see you hanged first; Harrowby says, he 'd 
sooner die than ask any man for a shilling ! — there 's his 
daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal that 
has served in the wars with him — he keeps them all upon 
half pay. 

Sir R. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey ! 

Fred. [ Going. ~\ Uncle, good morning. 

Sir R. Where, you rogue, are you running now ? 

Fred. To talk to Lieutenant Worthington. 

Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him ? 

Fred. 1 can 't tell till I encounter him ; and then, uncle, 
when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who is disabled 
in his country's service, and struggling to support his 
motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant in 
honourable indigence, impulse will supply me with words to 
express my sentiments. [Hurrying away. 

Sir R. Stop, you rogue, I must be before you in this 
business. 

Fred. That depends upon who can run fastest ; so start 
fair, uncle, and here goes. [Runs off. 

Sir R. Stop; why Frederic — a jackanapes — to take my 
department out of my hands. I '11 disinherit the dog for his 
assurance. 

Hum. No, you wont. 

Sir R. Wont I ? hang me if I But we '11 argue that 

point as we go. Come along, Humphrey. 



226 



POLITICAL CUPIDITY REPROVED. 

From Mr. Sheridan's Speech on the Address to the Throne. 

In such an hour as this, at a moment pregnant with the 
national fate, can it be, that people of high rank, and profess- 
ing high principles, that they, or their families should seek 
to thrive on the spoils of misery, and fatten on the meals 
wrested from industrious proverty ? Can it be, that this 
should be the case with the very persons, who state the 
unprecedented peril of the country, as the sole cause of their 
being found in the ministerial ranks ? 

The constitution is in danger, religion is in danger, the 
very existence of the nation itself is endangered : all per- 
sonal and party considerations ought to vanish ; the war 
must be supported by every possible exertion, and by every 
possible sacrifice ; the people must not murmur at their bur- 
dens ; it is for their salvation ; their all is at stake. The time 
is come, when all honest and disinterested men should rally 
round the throne as a standard : — for what, ye honest and 
disinterested men ? to receive for your own private emolu- 
ment a portion of those very taxes, which you yourselves 
wring from the people, on the pretence of saving them from 
the poverty and distress, which you say the enemy would 
inflict, but which you take care that no enemy shall be able 
to aggravate. 

Oh ! shame ! shame ! is this a time for selfish intrigues, 
and the little dirty traffic for lucre and emolument? Does it 
suit the honour of a gentleman to ask at such a moment? 
Does it become the honesty of a minister to grant ? Is it 
intended to confirm the pernicious doctrine, so industriously 
propagated by many, that all public men are impostors, and 
that every politician has his price ? Or even where there is 
no principle in the bosom, why does not prudence hint to 
the mercenary and the vain, to abstain awhile at least, and 
wait the fitting of the times ? Improvident impatience ! 
Nay, even from those who seem to have no direct object of 
office or profit, what is the language which their actions 
speak ? 

The throne is in danger ! we will support the throne ; but 
let us share the smiles of royalty — the order of nobility is in 
danger ! I will fight for nobility, says the viscount, but 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 227 

my zeal would be much greater if I were made an earl. 
Rouse all the marquis within me ! exclaims the earl, and 
the peerage never turned forth a more undaunted champion 
in its cause than I shall prove. Stain my green riband blue, 
cries out the illustrious knight, and the fountain of honour 
will have a fast and faithful servant ! 

What are the people to think of our sincerity ? — What 
credit are they to give to our professions ? — Is this system 
to be persevered in ? — Is there nothing that whispers to that 
right honourable gentleman, that the crisis is too big, that 
the times are too gigantic, to be ruled by the little hackneyed 
and every-day means of ordinary corruption ? — or are we to 
believe, that he has within himself a conscious feeling, that 
disqualifies him from rebuking the ill-timed selfishness of 
his new allies ? 



AUTUMN. Longfellow. 

O, with what glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring — those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times — enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with 
A sober gladness, the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow-richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker, full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird, 
Lifts up her purple wing ; and in the vales 
The gentle wind — a sweet and passionate wooer- 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beach, and maple yellow-leaved, — 
Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves ; the purple finch, 



228 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, — 
A winter bird, — comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel ; whilst aloud, 
From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings ; 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 

O, what a glory doth this world put on 
For him, that, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent! 
For him the wind, ay, the yellow leaves, 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. Goldsmith. 

A Poetical Epistle to Lord Clare. 

Thanks, my lord, for your ven'son, for finer or fatter 
Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd on a platter; 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The white was so white, and the red was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regret- 
ting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: 
I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view, 
To be shown to my friend as a piece of virtu : 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
They 'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce, 
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce ; 
Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
But, my lord, it 's no bounce ; I protest, in my turn, 
It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burne.* 

* Lord Clare's nephew. 



229 

To go on with my tale — as I gaz'd on the haunch, 

I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; 

So I cut it and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. 

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 

'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : 

But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. 

There 's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and HifF — 

I think they love ven'son — I know they love beef. 

There's my countryman Higgins — oh ! let him alone, 

For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 

But hang it — to poets, that seldom can eat, 

Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 

Such dainties to them, it would look like a flirt, 

Like sending 'em ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
An acquaintance, a friend (as he call'd himself) enter'd; 
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
Who smil'd as he gaz'd at the ven'son and me. 
" What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! 
Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?" 
" Why whose should it be, sir?" cried I, with a flounce ; 
" I get these things often" — but that was a bounce: 
" Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
Are pleas'd to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 
" If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, 
"I'm glad I have taken this house in my way; 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
No words — I insist on 't — precisely at three : 
We' 11 have Johnson and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; 
My acquaintance is slight, or I 'd ask my lord Clare. 
And, now that 1 think on't, as I am a sinner ! 
We wanted this ven'son to make out a dinner. 
I '11 take no denial : it shall, and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this ven'son with me to Mile-End; 
No words, my dear Goldsmith — my friend — my dear 

friend !" 
Thus snatching his hat, he brush' d off like the wind, 
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 
20 



230 orator's own book. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And " nobody with me at sea but myself;" 
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty, 
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When come to the place where we were all to dine, 
(A chair-lumber' d closet, just twelve feet by nine) 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
" And I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, 
The one at the House, and the other with Thrale. 
But no matter, I '11 warrant we '11 make up the party, 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
Who dabble and write in the papers like you ; 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge : 
Some think he writes China — he owns to Panurge." 
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name. 
They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. 

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, 
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it 's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 

But what vex'd me the most, was that d 'd Scottish 

rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue, 
And, " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, 
If a prettier dinner I ever set eyes on ; 
Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curs'd, 
But I 've eat of your tripe till I 'm ready to burst." 
" The tripe," quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak, 
I could eat of this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; 
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." 



orator's own book. 231 

" O — ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a trice, 

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: 

There's a pasty." — " A pasty !" repeated the Jew : 

""I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 

" What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echo'd the Scot; 

" Though, splitting, I '11 still keep a corner for thot" 

" We '11 all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 

" We '11 all keep a corner," was echoed about 

While thus we resolv'd, that the pasty delay'd, 

With looks that quite petrified, enter' d the maid ; 

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 

Wak'd Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. 

But we quiekly found out (for who could mistake her ?) 

That she came with some terrible news from the baker : 

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 

Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 

And now that I think on 't the story may stop. 

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour mispiac'd, 

To send such good verses-to one of your taste : 

You 've got an odd something — a kind of discerning— 

A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 

At least it's your temper, as very well known, 

That you think very slightly of all that's your own: 

So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 

You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



ORATION CONCERNING THE REGULATION OF THE STATE. 

Demosthenes. 

You ask, Athenians ! " What real advantage have we de- 
rived from the speeches of Demosthenes ? He rises when 
he thinks proper ; he deafens us with his harangues ; he 
declaims against the degeneracy of present times ; he tells us 
of the virtues of our ancestors ; he transports us by his airy 
extravagance ; he puffs up our vanity ; and then sits down." 
But, could these my speeches once gain an effectual in- 
fluence upon your minds, so great would be the advantage 
conferred upon my country, that were I to attempt to speak 
them, they would appear to many as visionary. Yet still I 
must assume the merit of doing some service, by accustom- 



232 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

ing you to hear salutary truths. And if your counsellors be 
solicitous for any point of moment to their country, let them 
first cure your ears ; for they are distempered : and this, 
from the inveterate habit of listening 1 to falsehoods, to every 
thing, rather than your real interests. 

Thus it lately happened, (let no man interupt me : let me 
have a patient hearing) that some persons broke into the 
treasury. The speakers all instantly exclaimed, " Our free 
constitution is overturned : our laws are no more !" And 
now, ye men of Athens ! judge, if I speak with reason. 
They who are guilty of this crime, justly deserve to die ; 
but by such offenders our constitution is not overturned. 
Again, some oars have been stolen from our arsenal. 
" Stripes and tortures for the villain ! our constitution is sub- 
verted !" This is the general cry. But what is my opin- 
ion ? This criminal, like the others, hath deserved to die ? 
but, if some are criminal, our constitution is not therefore 
subverted. There is no man who dares openly and boldly 
to declare, in what case our constitution is subverted. But 
I shall declare it. When you Athenians become a helpless 
rabble, without conduct, without property, without arms, 
without order, without unanimity ; when neither general, 
nor any other person, hath the least respect for your de- 
crees ; when no man dares to inform you of this your con- 
dition, to urge the necessary reformation, much less to exert 
his efforts to effect it : then is your constitution subverted. 
And this is now the case. 

But, O my fellow citizens ! a language of a different na- 
ture hath poured in upon us ; false, and highly dangerous to 
the state. Such is that assertion, that in your tribunals is 
your great security ; that your right of suffrage is the real 
bulwark of the constitution. That these tribunals are our 
common resource, in all private contests, I acknowledge. 
But it is by arms we are to subdue our enemies ; by arms 
we are to defend our state. It is not by our decrees that we 
can conquer. To those, on the contrary, who fight our bat- 
tles with success, to those we owe the power of decreeing, 
of transacting all our affairs, without control or danger. In 
arms, then, let us be terrible; in our judicial transactions, 
humane. 

If it be observed, that these sentiments are more elevated 
than might be expected from my character, the observation, 



233 

I confess, is just. Whatever is said about a state of such 
dignity, upon affairs of such importance, should appear more 
elevated than any character. To your worth should it cor- 
respond, not to that of the speaker. 

And now I shall inform you, why none of those who 
stand high in your esteem, speak in the same manner. The 
candidates for office and employment go about soliciting 
your voices, the slaves of popular favour. To gain the 
rank of general, is each man's great concern ; not to fill this 
station with true manlike intrepidity. Courage, if he pos- 
sesses it, he deems unnecessary ; for, thus he reasons : he has 
the honour, the renown of this city to support him ; he finds 
himself free from oppression and control ; he needs but to 
amuse you with fair hopes ; and, thus, he secures a kind of in- 
heritance in your emoluments. And he reasons truly. But, do 
you yourselves, once assume the conduct of your own 
affairs; and then, as you take an equal share of duty, so 
shall you acquire an equal share of glory. Now, your min- 
isters and public speakers, without one thought of directing 
you faithfully to your true interests, resign themselves en- 
tirely to these generals. Formerly you divided into classes, 
in order to raise the supplies : now the business of the classes 
is to gain the management of public affairs. The orator is 
the leader; the general seconds his attempts; the Three 
Hundred are the assistants on each side ; and all others take 
their parties, and serve to fill up the several factions. And 
you see the consequences : this man gains a statue ; this 
amasses a fortune ; one or two command the state ; while 
you sit down unconcerned witnesses of their success ; and, 
for an uninterrupted course of ease and indolence, give them 
up those great and glorious advantages which really belong 
to you, 



MUCIUS SCEVOLA TO KING PORSENA.— ~-Livij. 

I am a Roman citizen — my name Mucius. My purpose 
was to kill an enemy. Nor am I less prepared to undergo 
the punishment, than I was to perpetrate the deed. To do 
and to suffer bravely is a Roman's part. Neither am I the 
only person thus affected towards you. There is a long list 
of competitors for the same honour. If, therefore, you 
20 * 



234 orator's own book. 

choose to confront the danger of setting your life every hour 
at hazard, prepare yourself — you will have the foe in every 
porch of your palace. This is the kind of war that the Ro- 
man youth declare against you. You have nothing to fear in 
the field. The combat is against you alone, and every 
individual is your antagonist. 



THE INESTIMABLE VALUE OF THE UNION. Webster. 

Mr. President,— If the plain provisions of the Constitu- 
tion of these United States shall now be disregarded, and the 
new doctrines (of State rights) interpolated in it, it will be- 
come as feeble and helpless a being as its enemies, whether 
early or more recent, could possibly desire. It will exist in 
every State, but as a poor dependent on State permission. 
It must borrow leave to be, and will be, no longer than State 
pleasure, or State discretion, sees fit to grant the indulgence, 
and to prolong its poor existence. , 

But, sir, although there are fears, there are hopes also. 
The people have preserved this, their own chosen Constitu- 
tion, for forty years, and have seen their happiness, pros- 
perity and renown, grow with its growth, and strengthen 
with its strength. They are now, generally, strongly 
attached to it. Overthown by direct assault, it cannot be ; 
evaded, undermined, nullified, it will not be, if we, and 
those who shall succeed us here, as agents and represen- 
tatives of the people, shall conscientiously and vigilantly 
discharge the two great branches of our public trust — faith- 
fully to preserve, and wisely to adminster it. 

Mr. President, I have thus stated the reasons of my dis- 
sent to the doctrines which have been advanced and main- 
tained. I am conscious of having detained you, and the 
senate, much too long. I was drawn into the debate with 
no previous deliberation, such as is suited to the discussion 
of so grave and important a subject. But it is a subject of 
which my heart is full, and I have not been willing to sup- 
press the utterance of its spontaneous sentiments. I cannot, 
even now, persuade myself to relinquish it, without express- 
ing, once more, my deep conviction, that sin6e it respects 
nothing less than the Union of the States, it is of the most 
vital and essential importance to the public happiness. I 



235 

profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in 
view the prosperity and honour of the whole country, and 
the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union 
we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and 
dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly 
indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. 
That union we reached, only by the discipline of our virtues, 
in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the 
necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and 
ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great 
interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang 
forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has 
teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings : and 
although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, 
and our population spread farther and farther, they have not 
outrun its protection, or its benefits. It has been to us all a 
copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. 
I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to 
see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have 
not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when 
the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I 
have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of 
disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom 
the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a 
safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose 
thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the 
Union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be 
the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and 
destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, 
gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our 
children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God 
grant, that, in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise ; 
God grant, that on my vision never may be opened what 
lies behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for 
the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining 
on the broken and dishonoured fragments of a once glorious 
Union ; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a 
land rent with civil, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal 
blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, rather, 
behold the gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and 
honoured throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its 
arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a 



236 

stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured — bear- 
ing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as — What 
is all this worth ? Nor those other words of delusion and 
folly — Liberty first, and Union afterwards — but every 
where, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing 
on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the 
land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other 
sentiment, dear to every true American heart — Liberty and 
Union, now and for ever, one and inseparable ! 



MUTUAL FORBEARANCE NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE 
MARRIED STATE. Cowper. 

The lady thus address'd her spouse— 
" What a mere dungeon is this house ! 
By no means large enough ; and was it, 
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, 
Those hangings with their worn-out graces, 
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, 
Are such an antiquated scene, 
They overwhelm me with the spleen." 
Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, 
Makes answer quite beside the mark : 
" No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, 
Engag'd myself to be at home, 
And shall expect him at the door, 
Precisely when the clock strikes four." 

" You are so cteaf," the lady cried, 
And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside — 
" You are so sadly deaf, my dear, 
What shall I do to make you hear ?" 

" Dismiss poor Harry !" he replies ; 
" Some people are more nice than wise. 
For one slight trespass all this stir ? 
What if he did ride whip and spur, 
'T was but a mile — your fav'rite horse 
Will never look one hair the worse." 

" Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing" — 
" Child ! I am rather hard of hearing" — 
" Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl; 
I tell you, you can't hear at all \" 






orator's own book. 237 

Then with a voice exceeding low, 
" No matter if you hear or no." 

Alas ! and is domestic strife, 
That sorest ill of human life, 
A plague so little to be fear'd, 
As to be wantonly incurr'd, 
To gratify a fretful passion, 
On every trivial provocation ? 
The kindest and the happiest pair 
Will find occasion to forbear ; 
And something, ev'ry day they live, 
To pity, and perhaps forgive. 
But if infirmities, that fall 
In common to the lot of all, 
A blemish or a sense impair'd, 
Are crimes so little to be spar'd, 
Then farewell all that must create 
The comfort of the wedded state ; 
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, 
And tumult, and intestine war. 

The love that cheers life's latest stage, 
Proof against sickness and old age, 
Preserv'd by virtue from declension, 
Becomes not weary of attention ; 
But lives, when that exterior grace 
Which first inspir'd the flame, decays : 
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, 
To faults compassionate or blind. 
All will with sympathy endure 
Those evils it would gladly cure ; 
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, 
Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
Proves that the heart is none of his, 
Or soon expels him if it is. 



MOLOCH, THE FALLEN ANGEL, TO THE INFERNAL POWERS, 
INCITING THEM TO RENEW THE WAR. Milton. 

My sentence is for open war, of wiles 
More unexpert, I boast not; then let those 
Contrive who need, or when they need, not now ; 



238 orator's own book. 

For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, 

Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait 

The signal to ascend, sit ling'ring here, 

Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place 

Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, 

The prison of his tyranny, who reigns 

By our delay ? No : let us rather choose, 

Arm'd with hell flames and fury, all at once, 

O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, 

Turning our tortures into horrid arms, 

Against the tort'rer; when to meet the noise 

Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 

Infernal thunder ; and for lightning, see 

Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 

Among his angels — and his throne itself, 

Mix'd with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, 

His own invented torments. But perhaps, 

The way seems difficult and steep to scale, 

With upright wing, against a higher foe. 

Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench 

Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, 

That in our proper motion we ascend 

Up to our native seat ; descent and fall 

To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 

When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear, 

Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, 

With what compulsion and laborious flight, 

We sunk thus low ? Th' assent is easy then, 

Th' event is fear'd. Should we again provoke 

Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find, 

To our destruction ; if there be in hell, 

Fear to be worse destroy'd : What can be worse 

Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemn' d 

In this abhorred deep to utter wo ; 

When pain of unextinguishable fire, 

Must exercise us without hope of end, 

The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 

Inexorable, and the tort'ring hour 

Calls us to penance ? More destroy'd than thus 

We should be quite abolish'd and expire. 

What fear we then ? What doubt we to incense 

His utmost ire ? Which to the height enrag'd, 



orator's own book. 329 



Will either quite consume us, and reduce 
To nothing this essential, (happier far, 
Than miserable, to have eternal being) 
Or if our substance be indeed divine, 
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 
On this side nothing ; and by proof we feel 
Our power sufficient to disturb this heaven, 
And with perpetual inroads to alarm, 
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne ; 
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge. 



SPEECH OF BELIAL ADVISING PEACE. Milton. 

I should be much for open war, O peers, 
As not behind in hate, if what was urg'd 
Main reason to persuade immediate war, 
Did not dissuade the most, and seem to cast 
Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; 
When he who most excels in feats of arms, 
In what he counsels, and in what excels, 
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 
First, what revenge ? The towers of heaven are fill'd 
With armed watch, that render all access 
Impregnable ; oft on the bordering deep 
Encamp their legions ; or with obscure wing, 
Scout far and wide, into the realm of night, 
Scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way 
By force, and at our heels all hell should rise 
With blackest insurrection, to confound 
Heaven's purest light — yet our great enemy, 
All incorruptible, would on his throne, 
Sit unpolluted, and th' ethereal mould, 
Incapable of stain, would soon expel 
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, 
Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope 
Is flat despair. We must exasperate 
Th' almighty victor to spend all his rage, 
And that must end us ; that must be our cure, 



240 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

To be no more. Sad fate ! For who would lose, 

Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 

Those thoughts that wander through eternity, 

To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 

In the wide womb of uncreated night, 

Devoid of sense and motion ! And who knows, 

Let this be good, whether our angry foe 

Can give it, or will ever ? How he can, 

Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure. 

Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire 

Belike through impotence, or unaware, 

To give his enemies their wish, and end 

Them in his anger, whom his anger saves 

To punish endless ? Wherefore cease we then ? 

Say they who counsel war, we are decreed, 

Reserv'd and destin'd to eternal wo ; 

Whatever doing, what can suffer more, 

What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst, 

Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 

What, when we fled amain, pursu'd and struck 

With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 

The deep to shelter us 1 This hell then seem'd 

A refuge from those wounds ; or when we lay 

Chain' d on the burning lake ? That sure was worse. 

What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 

Awak'd, should blow them into sevenfold rage, 

And plunge us in the flames ? Or, from above, 

Should intermitted vengeance arm again 

His red right hand to plague us ? What if all 

Her stores were open'd, and this firmament 

Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 

Impendent horrors, threat'ning hideous fall 

One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps, 

Designing or exhorting glorious war, 

Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurl'd 

Each on his rock transfix' d, the sport and prey 

Of wrecking whirlwinds, or forever sunk 

Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains : 

There to converse with everlasting groans, 

Unrespited, unpitied, unrepriev'd, 

Ages of hopeless end ! This would be worse. 

War, therefore, open or conceal'd, alike 

My voice dissuades. 



orator's own book. 241 



SPEECH OF LORD MANSFIELD, ON THE BILL FOR PREVENT- 
ING THE DELAYS OF JUSTICE BY CLAIMING THE PRIVILEGE 
OF PARLIAMENT. 1770. 

My Lords, — When I consider the importance of this bill 
to your lordships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much 
of your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common 
magnitude ; it is no less than to take away from two-thirds 
of the legislative body of this great kingdom, certain privi- 
leges and immunities, of which they have long been pos- 
sessed. Perhaps there is no situation which the human 
mind can be placed in, that is so difficult and so trying, as 
where it is made a judge in its own cause. There is some- 
thing implanted in the breast of man, so attached to itself, 
so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such a situ- 
ation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide with jus- 
tice, has ever been held as the summit of all human virtue. 
The bill now in question puts your lordships in this very 
predicament ; and I doubt not but the wisdom of your deci- 
sion will convince the world, that where self-interest and 
justice are in opposite scales, the latter will ever prepon- 
derate with your lordships. 

Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages, and 
in all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom ; and 
indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of this 
country, that the members of both houses should be free in 
their persons in cases of civil suits ; for there may come a time 
when the safety and welfare of this whole empire may depend 
upon their attendance in parliament. God forbid that I 
should advise any measure that would in future endanger the 
state : but the bill before your lordships has, I am confident, 
no such tendency, for it expressly secures the persons of 
members of either house in all civil suits. This being the 
case, I confess, when 1 see many noble lords, for whose 
judgment I have a very great respect, standing up to oppose 
a bill which is calculated merely to facilitate the recovery of 
just and legal debts, I am astonished and amazed. They, I 
doubt not, oppose the bill upon public principles : I would 
not wish to insinuate that private interest has the least 
weight in their determinations. 

This bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequently 
21 



242 

miscarried ; but it was always lost in the lower house. 
Little did I think when it had passed the commons, that it 
possibly could have met with such opposition here. Shall 
it be said, that you, my lords, the grand council of the na- 
tion, the highest judicial and legislative body of the realm, 
endeavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws which 
you enforce on your fellow-subjects ? Forbid it, justice ! — 
I am sure, were the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, 
with but half the difficulties and delays, that are every day 
occasioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privi- 
lege, they would not, nay, they could not, oppose this bill. 

I have waited with patience to hear what arguments 
might be urged against the bill ; but I have waited in vain. 
The truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. 
The justice, the expediency of this bill is such, as renders 
it self-evident. It is a proposition of that nature that can 
neither be weakened by argument, nor entangled with sophis- 
try. Much, indeed, has been said by some noble lords on 
the wisdom of our ancestors, and how differently they 
thought from us. 

They not only decreed that privilege should prevent all 
civil suits from proceeding during the sitting of parliament, 
but likewise granted protection to the very servants of mem- 
bers. I shall say nothing on the wisdom of our ancestors ; 
it might perhaps appear invidious, and is not necessary in 
the present case. 

I shall only say, that the noble lords that flatter them- 
selves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, 
that as circumstances alter, things themselves should alter. 
Formerly, it was not so fashionable, either for masters or ser- 
vants, to run in debt, as it is at present ; nor, formerly, were 
merchants and manufacturers members of parliament, as at 
present. The case now is very different ; both merchants 
and manufacturers are, with great propriety, elected mem- 
bers of the lower house. Commerce having thus got into 
the legislative body of the kingdom, privileges must be done 
away. 

We all know that the very soul and essence of trade are 
regular payments ; and sad experience teaches us, that there 
are men, who will not make their regular payments without 
the compressive power of the laws. The law, then, ought 
to be equally open to all ; any exemption to particular men, 



243 

or particular ranks of men, is, in a free and commercial 
country, a solecism of the grossest nature. 

But I will not trouble your lordships with arguments for 
that, which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall only 
say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee much 
inconveniency from the persons of their servants being liable 
to be arrested. One noble lord observes, that the coachman 
of a peer may be arrested while he is driving his master to 
the house, and consequently, he will not be able to attend 
his duty in parliament. If this was actually to happen, there 
are so many methods by which the member might still get 
to the house, 1 can hardly think the noble lord is serious in 
his objection. Another noble peer -said, that by this bill 
they might lose their most valuable and honest servants. 
This I hold to be a contradiction in terms ; for he can nei- 
ther be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, who gets into 
debt, which he is neither able nor willing to pay, until com- 
pelled by law. If my servant, by unforeseen accidents, has 
got in debt, and I still wish to retain him, I certainly would 
pay the debt. But upon no principle of liberal legislation 
whatever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors at 
defiance, while, for forty shillings only, the honest trades- 
man may be torn from his family, and locked up in gaol. 
It is monstrous injustice! I flatter myself, however, the 
determination of this day will entirely put an end to all such 
partial proceedings for the future, by passing into a law the 
bill now under your lordships consideration. 

I now eome to speak upon what, indeed, I would have 
gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at for the 
part I have taken in this bill. It has been said by a noble 
lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running the race of 
popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that 
applause bestowed by after-ages on good and virtuous 
actions, I have long been struggling in that race — to what 
purpose, all-trying time can alone determine ; but if that 
noble lord means that mushroom popularity, which is raised 
without merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mistaken 
in his opinion. 1 defy the noble lord to point out a single 
action in my life, where the popularity of the times ever had 
the smallest influence on my determinations. I thank God 
I have a more permament and steady rule for my conduct — 
the dictates of my own breast. Those that have forgone 
that pleasing adviser, and given up their mind to be the 



244 orator's own book. 

slave of every popular impulse, I sincerely pity: I pity 
them still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the 
shouts of a mob for the trumpet of fame. Experience might 
inform them, that many, who have been saluted with the 
huzzas of a crowd one day, have received their execrations 
the next: and many, who by the popularity of the times 
have been heM up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, 
appeared upon the historian's page, where truth has tri- 
umphed over delusion, the assassins of liberty. Why, then, 
the noble lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, 
that echo of folly and shadow of renown, I am at a loss 
to determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now 
before your lordships will be popular ; it depends much 
upon the caprice of the day. It may not be popular, to com- 
pel people to pay their debts ; and in that case the present 
must be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular, nei- 
ther, to take away any of the privileges of parliament ; for 
I very well remember, and many of your lordships may 
remember, that not long ago, the popular cry was for the 
extension of privileges ; and so far did they carry it at that 
time, that it was said, that privilege protected members even 
in criminal actions : nay, such was the power of popular 
prejudices over weak minds, that the very decisions of some 
of the courts were tinctured with this doctrine. It was 
undoubtedly an abominable doctrine : I thought so then, and 
think so still ; but, nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine, 
and came immediately from those who are called the friends 
of liberty — how deservedly, time will show. True liberty, 
in my opinion, can only exist when justice is equally admin- 
istered to all — to the king and to the beggar. Where is the 
justice, then, or where is the law, that protects a member of 
parliament more than any other man from the punishment due 
to his crimes ? The laws of this country allow of no place 
nor employment to be a sanctuary for crimes ; and where 
I have the honour to sit as a judge, neither royal favour nor 
popular applause shall ever protect the guilty. I have now 
only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your 
lordship's time ; and am sorry a bill, fraught with so good 
consequences, has not met with an abler advocate; but I 
doubt not your lordships' determination will convince the 
world, that a bill, calculated to contribute so much to the 
equal distribution of justice as the present, requires with 
your lordships but very little support. 



orator's own book. 245 



LADY RANDOLPH S SOLILOQUY, LAMENTING THE DEATH OF HER 
HUSBAND AND CHILD. Home. 

Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom 
Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth 
The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart — 
Farewell a while, I will not leave you long 
For, in your shades, I deem some spirit dwells, 
Who, from the chiding stream, and groaning oak, 
Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan. 
Oh, Douglass ! Douglass ! if departed ghosts 
Are e'er permitted to review this world, 
Within the circle of that wood thou art ; 
And with the passion of immortals hear'st 
My lamentation ! hear 'st thy wretched wife 
Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost. 
My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn, 
Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day. 
To thee I lift my voice, to thee address 
The plaint which mortal ear has never heard. 
Oh ! disregard me not. Though I am call'd 
Another's now, my heart is wholly thine. 
Incapable of change, affection lies 
Buried, my Douglass, in thy bloody grave. 

Tragedy of Douglass. 



SPEECH OF HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS, AT THE SIEGE OF 
HARFLEUR. Shakspeare. 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more 
Or close the wall up with the English dead. 
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility ; 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard favour'd rage j 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
Let it pry o'er the portage of the head 
Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it ? 
21* 



246 orator's own book. 

And fearfully as doth the galled rock 

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide ; 

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 

To its full height. Now on you noblest English, 

Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war-proof; 

Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 

Have in these parts from morn till even fought, 

And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. 

Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest 

That those whom you call fathers did beget you. 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, 

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 

That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt not ; 

For there is none of you so mean and base, 

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ; 

Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, 

Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George ! 

Henry V. 



THE BELL OF ST. REGIS. Mrs. Sigourney. 

In 1704, when Deerfield was taken by the Indians, a small church-bell was carried away 
on a sledge as far as Lake Champlain and buried. It was afterwards taken up and 
conveyed to Canada. 

The red men came in their pride and wrath, 

Deep vengeance fired their eye, 
And the blood of the white was in their path, 

And the flame from his roof rose high. 

Then down from the burning church they tore 

The bell of tuneful sound, 
And on with their captive train they bore 
That wonderful thing toward their native shore, 

The rude Canadian bound. 



247 



But now and then, with a fearful tone, 

It struck on their startled ear — 
And sad it was, 'mid the mountains lone, 
Or the ruined tempest mutter' d moan, 

That terrible voice to hear. 

It seemed like the question that stirs the soul 

Of its secret good or ill, 
And they quaked as its stern and solemn toll 

Re-echoed from rock to hill. 

And they started up in their broken dream, 

'Mid the lonely forest-shade, 
And thought that they heard the dying scream, 
And saw the blood of slaughter stream 

Afresh through the village glade. 

Then they sat in council, those chieftains old, 

And a mighty pit was made, 
Where the lake with its silver waters rolled 
They buried that bell 'neath the verdant mould, 

And crossed themselves and prayed. 

And there till a stately powow came 

It slept in its tomb forgot, 
With a mantle of fur, and a brow of flame 

He stood on that burial spot : 

They wheeled the dance with its mystic round 

At the stormy midnight hour, 
And a dead man's hand on his breast he bound, 
And invoked, ere he broke that awful ground, 

The demons of pride and power. 

Then he raised the bell, with a nameless rite, 

Which none but himself might tell, 
In blanket and bear-skin he bound it tight, 
And it journeyed in silence both day and night, 
So strong was that magic spell. 

It spake no more, till St. Regis's tower 

In northern skies appeared, 
And their legends extol that powow's power 
Which lulled that knell like the poppy flower, 
As conscience now slumbereth a little hour 

In the cell of a heart that 's seared. 



248 orator's own book. 



DAYBREAK. Dana. 



" The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the 
sun rising; the name of the chamber was Peace ; where he slept till break of day, 
and then he awoke and sang." 

Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long, 
In fiery armour, up the heavens high 
Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song. 
Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh. 
Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye ; 
And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. 
Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why 
My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim ; 
Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him 

" Canst thou grow sad," thou say'st, " as earth grows bright? 
And sigh, when little birds begin discourse 
In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light 
Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source ? 
With creatures innocent thou must, perforce, 
A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure. 
And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse, 
Of ills and pains of life, must be the cure, 
And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure." 

I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue 
Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red ; 
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew ; 
And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread 
With dusky light, which warmth nor comfort shed. 
Still — save the bird that scarcely lifts its song — 
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead— 
The silent city emptied of its throng, 
And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong. 

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth 
Will quicken soon ; and hard, hot toil and strife, 
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth 
With discord strange, and all that man calls life. 
With thousand scattered beauties nature 's rife ; 
And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies : — - 
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife ; 
Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties : 
He, feverish, blinded lives, and, feverish, sated dies, 



249 

And 'tis because man useth so amiss 
Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad ; 
Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this, 
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad, 
From her fair face ? — It is that man is mad ! 
Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine, 
When Nature grieves ; nor deem this heart is bad. 
Thou look'st towards earth, but yet the heavens are thine ; 
While 1 to earth am bound : When will the heavens be mine ? 

If man would but his finer nature learn, 
And not in life fantastic lose the sense 
Of simpler things ; could Nature's features stern 
Teach him be thoughtful : then, with soul intense, 
I should not yearn for God to take me hence, 
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed, 
Remembering, humbly, why it is, and whence : 
But when I see cold man of reason proud, 
My solitude is sad — I 'm lonely in the crowd. 

But not for this alone, the silent tear 
Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn, 
Nor for this solemn hour ; — fresh life is near, — 
But all my joys! — they died when newly born. 
Thousands will wake to joy ; while I, forlorn, 
And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye, 
Shall see them pass. Breathe calm — my spirit's torn: 
Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high! — 
Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh. 

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be 
That I — whom Nature taught to sit with her 
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea — 
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir 
Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur 
To my strong spirit ; — who, as mine own child, 
Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur 
A beauty see — that I this mother mild 
Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild. 

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft 
Shot 'thwart the earth !— in crown of living fire 
Up comes the Day ! — as if they conscious quaffed 
The sunny flood, hill, forest city, spire 



250 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

Laugh in the wakening light. Go, vain Desire ! 
The dusky lights have gone ; go thou thy way ! 
And pining Discontent, like them, expire ! 
Be called my chamber, Peace, when ends the day, 
And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray ! 



MICIPSA TO JUGURTHA. SallusU 

You know, Jugurtha ! that I received you under my pro- 
tection in your early youth, when left a helpless and hope- 
less orphan. I advanced you to high honours in my king- 
dom, in the full assurance that you would prove grateful 
for my kindness to you ; and that, if I came to have children 
of my own, you would study to repay to them what you 
owed to me. Hitherto I have had no reason to repent of 
my favours to you. For, to omit all former instances of 
your extraordinary merit, your late behaviour in the Numan- 
tian war has reflected upon me, and my kingdom, a new 
and distinguished glory. You have, by your valour, rendered 
the Roman commonwealth, which before was well affected 
to our interest, much more friendly. In Spain, you have 
raised the honour of my name and crown. And you have 
surmounted what is justly reckoned one of the greatest diffi- 
culties ; having by your merit, silenced envy. My dissolu- 
tion seems now to be fast approaching. I therefore beseech 
and conjure you, my dear Jugurtha, by this right hand ; by 
the remembrance of my past kindness to you ; by the honour 
of my kingdom, and by the majesty of the gods ; be kind 
to my two sons whom my favour to you has made your 
brothers ; and do not think of forming a connection with 
any stranger to the prejudice of your relations. It is not 
by arms, nor by treasures, that a kingdom is secured ; but 
by well affected subjects and allies. And it is by faithful 
and important services, that friendship (which neither gold 
will purchase, nor arms extort) is secured. But what friend- 
ship is more perfect, than that which ought to obtain be- 
tween brothers ? What fidelity can be expected among 
strangers, if it is wanting among relations ? The kingdom, 
I leave you, is in good condition, if you govern it properly ; 
if otherwise, it is weak. For by agreement a small state 
increases : by division a great one falls into ruin. It will lie 



251 

upon you, Jugurtha, who are come to riper years than your 
brothers, to provide that no misconduct produce any bad 
effect. And, if any difference should arise between you and 
your brothers (which may the gods avert!) the public will 
charge you, however innocent you may be, as the aggressor, 
because your years and abilities give you the superiority. 
But I firmly persuade myself, that you will treat them with 
kindness, and that they will honour and esteem you, as 
your distinguished virtue deserves. 



THE HOSPITALITY AND THE REVENGE OF THE INDIAN. 

Speech of Logan, a Mingo Chief, to Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia— 1774. 

1 appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered 
Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat : if ever 
he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During 
the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained 
idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love 
for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, 
and said, "Logan is the friend of white men." I had even 
thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one 
man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and 
unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even 
sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of 
my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called 
on me for revenge. I have sought it ; I have killed many ; 
I have fully glutted my vengeance : for my country I rejoice 
at the beams of peace. But do not harbour a thought that 
mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not 
turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn 
for Logan ? — Not one. 



THE RAPID MARCH OF CIVILIZATION. 

Extract from a Speech of an Indian Chief to the Provincial Congress, in New England, 
April 11th, 1775. 

Brothers ! we have heard you speak by your letter — we 
thank you for it — we now make answer. Brothers ! you 
remember when you first came over the great waters, I was 



252 orator's own book. 

great and you were little, very small. I then took you in 
for a friend, and kept you under my arms, so that no one 
might injure you ; since that time we have ever been true 
friends; there has never been any quarrel between us. 
But now our conditions are changed. You are become 
great and tall. You reach to the clouds. You are seen all 
round the world. I am become small, very little. I am not 
so high as your heel. Now you take care of me, and I look 
to you for protection. Brothers ! I am sorry to hear of this 
great quarrel between you and Old England. It appears 
that blood soon must be shed to end this quarrel. We never, 
till this day, understood the foundation of this quarrel be- 
tween you and the country you came from. Brothers ! 
whenever I see your blood running, you will soon find me 
about you, to revenge my brother's blood. Although I am 
low and very small, I will gripe hold of your enemy's heel, 
that he cannot run so fast and so light as if he had nothing 
at his heels. 

Brothers ! I would not have you think that we are falling 
back from our engagements. We are ready to do any thing 
for your relief, and shall be guided by your counsel. 



THE EFFECTS OF CIVILIZATION UPON THE INDIANS. 

Extract from the Speech of Red Jacket, an Indian Chief, to one of the Missionaries of 
the Missionary Society. 

Friend and Brother, — It was the will of the Great Spirit 
that we should meet together this day. He orders all things, 
and has given us a fine day for our Council. He has 
taken his garment from before the sun, and caused it to 
shine with brightness upon us. Our eyes are opened, that 
we see clearly ; our ears are unstopped, that we have been 
able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken. For all 
these favours we thank the Great Spirit, and Him only. 

Brother — Listen to what we say. 

There was a time when our forefathers owned this great 
island. Their seats extended from the rising to the setting 
sun. The Great Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. 
He had created the buffalo, the deer, and other animals for 
food. He had made the bear and the beaver. Their skins 
served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the 



orator's own book. 253 

country, and taught us how to take them. He had caused 
the earth to produce corn for bread. All this He had done 
for his red children, because he loved them. If we had some 
disputes about our hunting ground, they were generally set- 
tled without the shedding of much blood. But an evil day 
came upon us. Your forefathers crossed the great water, 
and landed on this island. Their numbers were small, 
They found friends and not enemies. They told us they 
had fled from their own country, for fear of wicked men, and 
had come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a 
small seat. We took pity on them, granted their request; 
and they sat down among us. We gave them corn and 
meat ; they gave us poison in return. 

The white people had now found our country. Tidings 
were carried back, and more came amongst us. Yet we 
did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They 
called us brothers. We believed them, and gave them a 
larger seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased. 
They wanted more land ; they wanted our country. Our 
eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars 
took place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians, and 
many of our people were destroyed. They also brought 
strong liquor amongst us. It was strong and powerful, and 
has slain thousands. 

Brother — you have now heard our answer to your talk, 
and this is all we have to say at present. 

As we are going to part, we will come and take you by 
the hand, and hope the Great Spirit will protect you on your 
journey, and return you safe to your friends. 



FALSTAFF S SOLILOQUY ON HONOUR. Shakspeare. 

Owe heaven a death ! 'Tis not due yet; and I would be 
loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so for- 
ward with him that calls not on me ? Well, 't is no matter — 
honour pricks me on. But how, if honour pricks me off 
when I come on? How then? Can honour set a leg? No; 
or an arm ? No ; or take away the grief of a wound ? No. 
Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is 
honour ? A word. What is that word honour ? Air ; a trim 
reckoning. Who hath it ? He that died a Wednesday. Doth 
22 



254 

he feel it 1 No. Doth he hear it ? No. Is it insensible 
then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the 
living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. There- 
fore, I '11 none of it. Honour is a mere 'scutcheon — and so 
ends my catechism.— Henry iv. 



PART OF THE SOLILOQUY OF RICHARD III, THE NIGHT PRECED- 
ING THE BATTLE OF BOSWORTH. Shakspeare. 

'Tis now the dead of night, and half the world 
Is with a lonely solemn darkness hung ; 
Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me) 
With all the weary courtship of 
My care-tir'd thoughts, can't win her to my bed, 
Though e'en the stars do wink, as 'twere, with overwatch- 

ing 
I '11 forth, and walk awhile. The air's refreshing, 
And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay 
Gives it a sweet and wholesome odour. 
How awful is this gloom ! And hark ! from camp to camp 
The hum of either army stilly sounds, 
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive 
The secret whispers of each other's watch ! 
Steed threatens steed in high and boasting neighings, 
Piercing the night's dull ear. Hark ! From the tents, 
The armorers, accomplishing the knights, 
With clink of hammers closing rivets up, 
Give dreadful note of preparation : while some, 
Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch, 
With patience sit, and inly ruminate 
The morning's danger. By yon Heaven, my stern 
Impatience chides this tardy-gaited night, 
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp 
So tediously away. I '11 to my couch, 
And once more try to sleep her into morning. 



THE WORLD COMPARED TO A STAGE. Shakspeare, 

All the world 's a stage : 
And all the men and women, merely players. 
They have their exits and their entrances ; 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 255 

And one man, in his time, plays many parts, 

His acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant, 

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 

And then the whining School-boy, with his satchel, 

And shining morning face, creeping, like snail, 

Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover, 

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier, 

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, 

Seeking the bubble reputation, 

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice, 

In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd ; 

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut ; 

Full of wise saws and modern instances ; 

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side 

His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide 

For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 

That ends this strange eventful history, 

Is second Childishness, and mere oblivion ; 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Irving. 

In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and debasing. 
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and 
beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, 
operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external 
influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he 
eannot be vulgar. 

The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting 
in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he 
does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of 
cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad 
to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the 
honest, heart-felt enjoyments of common life. 

Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring men 



256 orator's own book. 

more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn 
blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great 
reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among 
the inferior orders in England, than they are in any other 
country ; and why the latter have endured so many exces- 
sive pressures and extremities, without repining more gene- 
rally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British 
literature : the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; 
those incomparable descriptions of nature, that abound in 
the British poets — that have continued down from " the 
Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into 
our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy 
landscape. 

The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they 
had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted 
with her general charms ; but the British poets have lived 
and revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most 
secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. 
A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not 
rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the 
stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, 
nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but 
it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate 
observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occu- 
pations, has been wonderful on the face of the country. A 
great part of the island is rather level, and would be mono- 
tonous, were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is stud- 
ded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and 
embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in 
grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes 
of rural repose and sheltered quiet. 

Every antique farm-house and moss grown cottage is a 
picture ; and as the roads are continually winding, and the 
view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted 
by a continual succession of small landscapes of captivating 
loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery, 
is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is asso- 
ciated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober 
well-established principles, of hoary usage and reverend 
custom, 



orator's own book. 257 

Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of regular and 
peaceful existence. The old church, of remote architecture, 
with its low massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows, 
rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preserva- 
tion — its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of 
the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil — 
its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy 
yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and 
kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, the quaint irregular 
pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes 
of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath lead- 
ing from the church-yard, across pleasant fields, and along 
shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorable right of 
way — the neighbouring village, with its venerable cottages, 
its public green, sheltered by trees, under which the fore- 
fathers of the present race have sported — the antique family 
mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but 
looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding 
scene — all these common features of English landscape 
evince a calm and settled security, a hereditary transmis- 
sion of home-bred virtues and local attachments, that speak 
deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell 
is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold 
the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and 
modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green 
lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them 
in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and 
appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellish- 
ments which their own hands have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affec- 
tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the 
steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close 
these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the words 
of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remark- 
able felicity. 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, __ 

The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring 1 middle life, 
Down to the cottag'd vale, and straw-roof'd shed, 
22* 



258 



This western isle has long been famed for scenes 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling- place : 

Domestic bliss, that like a harmless dove, 

(Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

Can centre in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses 

But its own sharers, and approving Heaven. 

That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 

Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky. 



HANNIBAL S ADDRESS TO SCIPIO AFRICANUS, AT THEIR INTER- 
VIEW PRECEDING THE BATTLE OF ZAMA. Hooke. 

Since fate has so ordained it, that I, who begun the war, 
and who have been so often on the point of ending it by a 
complete conquest, should now come of my own motion to 
ask a peace, I am glad that it is of you, Scipio, I have the 
fortune to ask it. Nor will this be among the least of your 
glories, that Hannibal, victorious over so many Roman gen- 
erals, submitted at last to you. 

I could wish, that our fathers and we had confined our 
ambition within the limits which nature seems to have pre- 
scribed to it ; the shores of Africa, and the shores of Italy. 
The gods did not give us that mind. On both sides we 
have been so eager after foreign possessions, as to put our 
own to the hazard of war. Rome and Carthage have had, 
each in her turn, the enemy at her gates. But since errors 
past may be more easily blamed than corrected, let it now 
be the work of you and me to put an end, if possible to the 
obstinate contention. For my own part, my years, and the 
experience I have had of the instability of fortune, inclines 
me to leave nothing to her determination, which reason can 
decide. But much I fear, Scipio, that your youth, your want 
of the like experience, your uninterrupted success, may ren- 
der you adverse from the thoughts of peace. He whom 
fortune has never failed, rarely reflects upon her inconstancy. 
Yet, without recurring to former examples, my own may 
perhaps suffice to teach you moderation. I am that same 
Hannibal, who after my victory at Cannae, became master 
of the greatest part of your country, and deliberated with 



orator's own book. 259 

myself what fate I should decree to Italy and Rome. And 
now — see the change ! Here, in Africa, I am come to treat 
with a Roman, for my own preservation and my conntry's. 
Such are the sports of fortune ! Is she then to be trusted 
because she smiles ? An advantageous peace is preferable 
to the hope of victory. The one is in your own power, the 
other at the pleasure of the gods. Should you prove vic- 
torious, it would add little to your own glory, or the glory 
of your country ; if vanquished, you lose in one hour all the 
honour and reputation you have been so many years acquir- 
ing. But what is my aim in all this ? — that you should con- 
tent yourself with our cession of Spain, Sicily, Sardinia, 
and all the islands between Italy and Africa. A peace on 
these conditions will, in my opinion, not only secure the future 
tranquillity of Carthage, but be sufficiently glorious for you, 
and for the Roman name. And do not tell me, that some of 
our citizens dealt fraudulently with you in the late treaty- 
it is I, Hannibal, that now ask a peace : I ask it, because I 
think it expedient for my country ; and, thinking it expe- 
dient, I will inviolably maintain it. 



THE PIG. Smart. 



In every age and each profession, 
Men err the most by prepossession ; 
But when the thing is clearly shown, 
And fairly stated, fully known, 
We soon applaud what we deride, 
And penitence succeeds to pride. — 

A certain baron on a day, 
Having a mind to show away, 
Invited all the wits and wags, 
Foot, Massey, Shuter, Yates and Skeggs, 
And built a large commodious stage, 
For the choice spirits of the age ; 
But above all, among the rest, 
There came a genius who profess'd 
To have a curious trick in store, 
Which never was perform'd before. 
Through all the town this soon got air, 
And the whole house was like a fair ; 



260 orator's own book. 

But soon his entry as he made, 

Without a prompter or parade, 

'Twas all expectance, all suspense, 

And silence gagg'd the audience. 

He hid his head behind his wig, 

And with such truth took off a pig, 

All swore 'twas serious, and no joke; 

For doubtless underneath his cloak 

He had conceal' d some grunting elf, 

Or was a real hog himself. 

A search was made, no pig was found— 

With thundering claps the seats resound, 

And pit, and box, and galleries roar, 

With — " O rare ! bravo !" and " encore I" 

Old Roger Grouse, a country clown, 
Who yet knew something of the town, 
Beheld the mimic and his whim, 
And on the morrow challeng'd him, 
Declaring to each beau and bunter, 
That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter. 
The morrow came — the crowd was greater — 
But prejudice and rank ill-nature 
Usurp' d the minds of men and wenches, 
Who came to hiss and break the benches. 
The mimic took his usual station, 
And squeak'd with general approbation. 
Again, "encore! encore !" they cry — ■ 
'T was quite the thing — 'twas very high. 
Old Grouse conceal'd amidst the racket, 
A real pig beneath his jacket — 
Then forth he came — and with his nail 
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail. — 
The tortur'd pig from out his throat 
Produc'd the genuine natural note. 
All bellowM out — 'twas very sad ! 
Sure never stuff was half so bad ! 
" That like a pig!" — each cried in scoff — 
"Pshaw! nonsense! blockhead! off! off! off!' 
The mimic was extoll'd, and Grouse 
Was hiss'd, and catcall' d from the house. — 
"Soft ye, a word before I go," 
Quoth honest Hodge — and stooping low. 



261 



Produc'dthe pig, and thus aloud 
Bespoke the stupid, partial crowd : 
" Behold, and learn from this poor creature, 
How much you critics know of nature." 



THE OCEAN. Drummond. 

Perhaps no scene or situation is so intensely gratifying 
to the naturalist as the shore of the ocean. The productions 
of the latter element are innumerable, and the majesty of 
the mighty waters lends an interest unknown to an inland 
landscape. 

The loneliness too of the sea-shore is much cheered by 
the constant changes arising from the ebb and flow of the 
tide, and the undulations of the water's surface, sometimes 
rolling like mountains, and again scarcely murmuring on 
the beach. As you gather there 

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow, 

you may feel with the poet, that there are joys in solitude, 
and that there are pleasures to be found in the investigation 
of nature of the most powerful and pleasing influence. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar. 

But nothing can be more beautiful than a view of the bot- 
tom of the ocean, during a calm, even round our own shores, 
but particularly in tropical climates, especially when it con- 
sists alternately of beds of sand and masses of rock. 

The water is frequently so clear and undisturbed, that, at 
great depths, the minutest objects are visible ; groves of 
coral are seen expanding their variously-coloured clumps, 
some rigid and immoveable, and others waving gracefully 
their flexile branches. Shells of every form and hue glide 
slowly along the stones, or cling to the coral boughs like 
fruit ; crabs and other marine animals pursue their prey in 
the crannies of the rocks, and sea-plants spread their limber 
leaves in gay and gaudy irregularity, while the most beauti- 
ful fishes are on every side sporting around. 



262 



The floor is of sand, like the mountain-drift, 

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 
The water is calm and still below, 

For the winds and waves are absent there ; 
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 

In the motionless fields of the upper air : 
There, with its waving blade of green. 

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter j 
There with a light and easy motion 

And fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea, 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea ; 
And life in rare and beautiful forms 

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 

And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms 
Has made the top of the waves his own : 
And when the ship from his fury flies 

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 

"When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore, 

Then far below in the peaceful sea 
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 

Where the waters murmur tranquilly 
Through the bending twigs of the coral-grove. 

Percival. 



THE CEREMONIAL. 



" Sir, will you please to walk before ?" 

" — No, pray, sir — you are next the door." 

" — Upon mine honour I '11 not stir — " 

" Sir, I'm at home; consider, sir — " 

" Excuse me, sir ; I'll not go first," 

" Well, if I must be rude, I must — 

But yet I wish I could evade it — 

'T is strangely clownish be persuaded — 

Go forward, cits ! go forward, 'squires ! 
Nor scruple each what each admires. 
Life squares not, friends, with your proceeding; 
It flies while you display your breeding ; 
Such breeding as one's granam preaches, 
Or some old dancing-master teaches. 



263 



Or for some rude tumultuous fellow, 
Half crazy, or at least, half mellow, 
To come behind you unawares, 
And fairly push you both down stairs ! 
But Death's at hand — let me advise ye, 
Go forward, friends ! or he '11 surprise ye. 

Besides, how insincere you are ! 
Do ye not flatter, lie, forswear, 
And daily cheat, and weekly pray, 
And all for this — to lead the way ? 



ADDRESS TO HIS ELBOW-CHAIR, NEW CLOTHED. Somerville, 

My dear companion, and my faithful friend ! 
If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend ; 
If stones and rubbish, at Amphion's call, 
Danc'd into form and built the Thebian wall, 
Why should 'st not thou attend my humble lays, 
And hear my grateful harp resound thy praise ? 
True, thou art spruce and fine, a very beau ! 
But what are trappings and external show ? 
To real worth alone I make my court ; 
Knaves are my scorn, and coxcombs are my sport. 
Once I beheld thee far less trim and gay, 
Ragged disjointed, and to worms a prey ; 
The safe retreat of every lurking mouse ; 
Derided, shunn'd ; the lumber of my house. 
Thy robe how chang'd from what it was before ! 
Thy velvet robe, which pleas'dmy sires of yore ! 
'Tis thus capricious fortune wheels us round ; 
Aloft we mounts— then tumble to the ground. 
Yet grateful then, my constancy I prov'd ; 
I knew thy worth ; my friend in rags I lov'd : 
I lov'd thee more ; nor, like a courtier, spurn'd 
My benefactor when the tide was turn'd. 
With conscious shame, yet frankly, I confess, 
That in my youthful days — I lov'd thee less. 
Where vanity, where pleasure call'd I stray'd, 
And every wayward appetite obey'd : 
But sage experience taught me how to prize 
Myself, and how this world : she bade me rise 



264 orator's own book. 

To nobler flights, regardles of a race 

Of factious emmets ; pointed where to place 

My bliss, and lodg'd me in thy soft embrace. 

Here on thy yielding down I sit secure, 
And patiently, what Heav'n has sent endure ; 
From all the futile cares of business free, 
Not fond of life, but yet content to be : 
Here mark the fleeting hours, regret the past, 
And seriously prepare to meet the last. 

So safe on shore the pension'd sailor lies, 
And all the malice of the storm defies ; 
With ease of body bless'd, and peace of mind, 
Pities the restless crew he left behind ; 
Whilst in his cell he meditates alone 
On his great voyage to the world unknown. 



CLOSE OF MR. BROUGHAM'S SPEECH ON THE REFORM BILL. 

Your Lordships may pass this bill, and then we shall 
have peace and contentment ; but I much dread that it may 
be refused, and that you may be induced, under other minis- 
ters, in less auspicious times, to grant a far more extensive 
measure than that which is now proposed. Oh, my lords, 
let the old illustration of the Sibyl, never be forgotten by 
you. On no one question of practical politics has it so 
direct a bearing as on this. 

You have now offered to you the volume of peace. The 
price that you are called upon by that prophetic Sibyl to pay 
is, to restore under great modifications, the old fabric of the 
representative constitution. You will not take the volume — 
you will not pay that price — that moderate price! The 
Sibyl darkens your doors no longer. You repent — you call 
her back — she returns — the leaves of peace are half torn out, 
and it is no longer the volume that first was offered ; but 
she demands a still larger price, and you must pay for it 
with parliaments by the year, elections by millions, and 
voting by ballot ; you will not pay that price, and again you 
send her away. 

What the next price which she will demand, and that you 
must pay, is more than I will say. This I know, as sure 
as man is man, and human error leads to human disappoint- 



265 

merit, justice delayed, wisdom postponed, must enhance the 
price of peace. My lords, there is an awful consideration 
connected with this subject. You are judges in the highest 
court in the last resort; and it is the first office of a judge 
never to decide even the most trifling case, without hearing 
every thing. But in this case you are going to decide with- 
out a hearing, without a trial. 

My lords, beware of standing out on this sacred subject. 
You may obstruct, you may put off the day, you may give 
a temporary life to the borough-jobber, and postpone the 
elective franchise to the greatest towns of the realm ; but, 
my lords, that delay will have no effect in raising the respect 
of this house, and in conciliating the affections of the people 
of this country. 

My lords, I wish you, because I belong to you, because I 
am a good subject of the king, because I am a friend to my 
country, but, above all, because my whole life has been 
devoted to obtain, confirm, and perpetuate peace abroad and 
at home, I wish you, nay, by all these reasons, and by all 
these motives, I pray and beseech you not thus to reject 
this -bill ? I call on you by all you hold most dear, I call on 
every one except those who think no reform necessary, and 
they alone can give a consistent vote against the bill. I 
call on you by this solemn appeal, and remember, my lords, 
I am in the same vessel as yourselves, I call on you, I 
entreat you, and on my bended knees I implore you not to 
reject this bill. 



A MOTHER S DEATH. Crabbe. 

Then died lamented, in the strength of life, 
A valued mother and a faithful wife ; 
Called not away, when time had loosed each hold 
On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold ; 
But when to all that knit us to our kind, 
She felt fast bound, as charity can bind ; — 
Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care, 
The drooping spirit for its fate prepare ; 
And, each affection failing, leaves the heart 
Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart , — 
23 



266 orator's own booic. 

But all her ties the strong invader broke, 
In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke : 
Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, 
And terror grew, till every hope was gone : 
Still those around appeared for hope to seek ! 
But viewed the sick and were afraid to speak. 

Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead : — 
When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed — 
My part began ; a crowd drew near the place, 
Awe in each eye, alarm in every face : 
So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind, 
That fear, with pity, mingled in each mind ; 
Friends with the husband came, their griefs to blend ; 
For good-man Frankford was to all a friend. 
The last-born boy they held above the bier, 
He knew not grief, but cries expressed his fear ; 
Each different age and sex revealed its pain, 
In now a louder, now a lower strain ; 
While the meek father listening to their tones, 
Swelled the full cadence of the grief by groans. 
The elder sister strove her pangs to hide, 
And soothing words to younger minds applied : 
" Be still, be patient," oft she strove to say; 
But failed as oft, and weeping turned away. 

Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill, 
The village lads stood melancholy still ; 
And idle children, wandering to-and-fro, 
As nature guided, took the tone of wo. 

Arrived at home, how then they gazed around, 
In every place — where she, no more was found ; 
The seat at table she was wont to fill; 
The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still; 
The garden-walks, a labour all her own ; 
The lattice-bower with trailing shrubs o'ergrown ; 
The Sunday-pew, she fill'd with all her race ; 
Each place of her's was now a sacred place, 
That while it called up sorrows in the eyes, 
Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise. 



267 



queen Margaret's address to the lords, before the 

BATTLE OF TEWKSBURY. Shakspeare. 

Third part of Henry VL Act 5, Scene 4. 

Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, 
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 
What though the mast be now blown overboard, 
The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, 
And half our sailors swallowed in the flood t 
Yet lives our pilot still ; Is 't meet, that he 
Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad. 
With tearful eyes add water to the sea, 
And give more strength to that which hath too much ; 
Whiles in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, 
Which industry and courage might have sav'd? 
Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! 
Say Warwick was our anchor ; what of that 1 
And Montague our top-mast ; what of him ? 
Our slaughter'd friends the taekles ; what of these ? 
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor ? 
And Somerset another goodly mast ? 
The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings ? 
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I ? 
For once allowed the skilful pilot's charge ? 
We will not from the helm, to sit and weep ; 
But keep our course, though the rough wind say — No, 
From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck. 
As good to chide the waves, as speak them fair. 
And what is Edward, but a ruthless sea ? 
What Clarence, but a quicksand of deceit ? 
And Richard, but a ragged fatal rock ? 
All these the enemies to our poor bark. 
Say you can swim; alas/ 'tis but a while: 
Tread on the sand ; why there you quickly sink : 
Bestride the rock ; the tide will wash you off, 
Or else you famish, that's a threefold death. 
This speak I, lords, to let you understand, 
In case some one of you would fly from us, 
That there's no hop'd-for mercy with the brothers, 
More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks. 
Why, courage, then ! what cannot be avoided, 
'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear f 



Safe* 



268 



PUBLIC FAITH. — Ames. 

To expatiate on the value of public faith may pass with 
some men for declamation — to such men I have nothing to 
say. To others I will urge — can any circumstance mark 
upon a people more turpitude and debasement ? Can any 
thing tend more to make men think themselves mean, or 
degrade to a lower point their estimation of virtue, and their 
standard of action ? 

It would not merely demoralize mankind, it tends to 
break all the ligaments of society, to dissolve that mysterious 
charm which attracts individuals to the nation, and to inspire 
in its stead a repulsive sense of shame and disgust. 

What is patriotism ? Is it narrow affection for the spot 
where a man was born ? Are the very clods where we tread 
entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener ? 
No, sir, this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars 
higher for its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling 
with all the enjoyments of life, and twisting itself with the 
minutest filaments of the heart. 

It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they are 
the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array 
of force and terror, but the venerable image of our country's 
honour. Every good citizen makes that honour his own, 
and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sacred. He is 
willing to risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that 
he gains protection while he gives it. 

For, what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviola- 
ble, when a state renounces the principles that constitute 
their security ? Or, if his life should not be invaded, what 
would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of 
strangers, and dishonoured in his own ? Could he look with 
affection and veneration to such a country as his parent ? 
The sense of having one would die within him ; he would 
blush for his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly, for it 
would be a vice. He would be a banished man in his 
native land. 

I see no exception to the respect, that is paid among 
nations to the law of good faith. If there are cases in this 
enlightened period, when it is violated, there are none when 
it is decried. It is the philosophy of politics, the religion of 



orator's own book. 269 

government. It is observed by barbarians — a whiff of to- 
bacco smoke, or a string of beads, gives not merely binding 
force, but sanctity to treaties. Even in Algiers, a truce may 
be bought for money ; but when ratified, even Algiers is too 
wise, or too just, to disown and annul its obligation. 

Thus we see, neither the ignorance of savages, nor the 
principles of an association for piracy and rapine, permit a 
nation to despise its engagements. If, sir, there «ould be a 
resurrection from the foot of the gallows, if the victims of 
justice could live again, collect together and form a society, 
they would, however loath, soon find themselves obliged to 
make justice, that justice under which they fell, the funda? 
mental law of their state. They would perceive, it was 
their interest to make others respect, and they would there- 
fore soon pay some respect themselves to the obligations of 
good faith. 

It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the 
supposition that America should furnish the occasion of this 
opprobrium. No, let me not even imagine, that a republican 
government, sprung, as our own is, from a people enlight- 
ened and imcorrupted, a government whose origin is right, 
and whose daily discipline is duty, can, upon solemn debate, 
make its option to be faithless — can dare to act what despots 
dare not avow. 



THE RESPONSIBILITY DEVOLVING ON THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. 

Extract from a Discourse delivered at Yale College, Nov. 29, 1827, by Professor 
Eleazer T, Fitch, 

The world, my friends, is before us, as Americans, pre- 
senting its claims. Here the experiment is happily begun, 
whether a nation may not perpetuate its existence and pros- 
perity with free institutions ; and the people who groan in 
bondage, or sigh for more liberal measures in other nations, 
look hither for sympathy and encouragement, and for the 
dawning of a brighter day. They watch anxiously the is- 
sues of an experiment which is the world's last hope for the 
success of freedom. If we are so unfaithful as to alienate 
these blessings from our land, and cause God who has con- 
ferred them to withdraw from us in indignation ; if, I say, 
the experiment fails in our hands : what despondency must 
23 * 



270 orator's own book. 

weigh down the hearts of all the friends of freedom in the 
earth ! They will reproach us with their doom, as they 
descend into a dark and hopeless night of despotism. And 
our shame shall be recorded on the annals of the world, as 
an ungrateful republic which thrusted from her the richest 
boon of Heaven. 

Posterity appear before us, urging their claims. We 
hold in trust the privileges of their birth-right. If we alien- 
ate the precious trust, how will they reproach our memories 
that we robbed them of their inheritance ! My friends, 
enlightened piety is, under God, the hope of this nation. 
Let the sentiment be deeply engraven on your hearts, that 
the American citizen must honour the God of his fathers, if 
he would effectually consult the welfare of his country. And 
to you, who are preparing for important influence, and are 
soon to enter upon responsible stations in this community, 
the subject is addressed with peculiar force. "With you,, 
are soon to be deposited the hopes of other generations. If 
you, and the generation who are rising upon the stage of life 
with you, shall in your various stations, wait on God and 
fulfil your appointed duties, the God of our fathers will bless 
you. Jehovah shall dwell in the land, its glory and defence. 
Iniquity shall retire at his presence, with her train of deform- 
ity and crime. The hearts of all shall be blessed with unity 
and joy. And from the Atlantic to the Pacific, the unnum- 
bered millions yet to inhabit this continent, shall rejoice in 
inheriting the rich legacy of your institutions. 



THE OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. 

Extract from an Oration delivered at Plymouth, December 22, 1824, by Edward Everett. 

When we think, my friends, of the history of the South 
American states, by what people many of them have been 
colonized, and what is their present state, who is there that 
is not grateful in the contrast which our history presents ? 
Who does not feel, what reflecting American does not ac- 
knowledge, the incalculable advantages derived to this land, 
out of the deep fountains of civil, intellectual, and moral 
truth, from which we have drawn in England ? What Ameri- 
can does not feel proud that he is descended from the coun- 
trymen of Bacon, of Newton and of Locke ? Who does not 






271 

know, that while every pulse of civil liberty in the heart of 
the British empire beat warm and full in the bosom of our 
fathers ; the sobriety, the firmness, and the dignity with 
which the cause of free principles struggled into existence 
here, constantly found encouragement and countenance from 
the sons of liberty there ? — Who does not remember that 
when the pilgrims went over the sea, the prayers of the 
faithful British confessors, in all the quarters of their disper- 
sion, went over with them, while their aching eyes were 
strained, till the star of hope should go up in the western 
skies ? And who will ever forget that in that eventful strug- 
gle, which severed this mighty empire from the British 
crown, there was not heard, throughout our continent in 
arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights of America, 
than that of Burke or of Chatham, within the walls of the 
British parliament, and at the foot of the British throne ? — 
No, for myself, 1 can truly say, that after my native land, I 
feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my fathers. 
The pride I take in my own country makes me respect that 
from which we are sprung. In touching the soil of England, 
I seem to return like a descendant to the old family seat ; — to 
come back to the abode of an aged, the tomb of a departed 
parent. I acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. 
The sound of my native language beyond the sea, is a music 
to my ear, beyond the richest strains of Tuscan softness, or 
Castilian majesty, — I am not yet in the land of strangers, while 
surrounded by the manners, the habits, the forms, in which 
I have been brought up. I wander delighted through a 
thousand scenes, which the historians, the poets have made 
familiar to us, — of which the names are interwoven with our 
earliest associations. I tread with reverence the spots, 
where I can retrace the footsteps of our suffering fathers ; the 
pleasant land of their birth has a claim on my heart. It 
seems to me a classic, yea, a holy land, rich in the memories 
of the great and good ; the martyrs of liberty, the exiled 
heralds of truth ; and richer as the parent of this land of 
promise in the west. 



272 orator's own book. 

the suffering of the pilgrims. 

Extract from the same Oration. 

Let us now, my friends, advert to that period when our 
Pilgrim Fathers left their country and their homes for this 
then unknown shore. Methinks I see that one solitary, ad- 
venturous vessel, freighted with the prospects of a future 
state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pur- 
suing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious 
voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, 
and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not 
the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now scantily 
supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in 
their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuit- 
ous route ; — and now driven in fury before the raging tem- 
pest, on the high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the 
storm howls through the rigging. The labouring masts seem 
straining from their base ; — the dismal sound of the pumps is 
heard ; — the ship leaps, as it were, madly from billow to bil- 
low ; — the ocean breaks, and settles with engulfing floods 
over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering 
weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped 
from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate under- 
taking, and landing at last, after a five months passage, on the 
ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the voy- 
age, — poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the 
charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, 
drinking nothing but water on shore, — without shelter, — 
without means, — surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut now 
the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human 
probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adven- 
turers. Tell me, man of military science, in how many 
months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, 
enumerated within the early limits of New England ? Tell 
me politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on 
which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish 
on the distant coast ? Student of history, compare for me 
the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned 
adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was 
it the winters's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of 
women and children ? was it hard labour and spare meals ? — 



273 

was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep ma- 
lady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken 
heart, aching in its last moments, at the recollection of the 
loved and left, beyond the sea ? was it some, or all of these 
united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melan- 
choly fate ? And is it possible that neither of these causes, 
that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? 
Is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so 
worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone 
forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an ex- 
pansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise yet to 
be fulfilled, so glorious ? 



VAIN BOASTING TREATED CONTEMPTUOUSLY. Shakspeare. 

Hotspur and Gkndoiver. 

Glen. Sit, cousin Percy ; sit, good cousin Hotspur ; 
For, by that name, as oft as Lancaster 
Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale ; and with 
A rising sigh, he wisheth you in Heav'n. 

Hot, And you in Hell, as often as he hears 
Owen Glendower spoken of. 

Glen. I blame him not : at my nativity, 
The front of Heaven was full of fiery shapes, 
Of burning cressets : know that, at my birth, 
The frame and the foundation of the earth 
Shook like a coward. 

Hot. So it would have done 
At the same season if your mother's cat 
Had kitten'd, though yourself had ne'er been born. 

Glen. I say the earth did shake when I was born. 

Hot. I say, the earth then was not of my mind ; 
If you suppose, as fearing you, it shook. 

Glen. The heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did tremble. 

Hot. O. then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire, 
And not in fear of your nativity. 
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth 
In strange eruptions : and the teeming earth 
Is with a kind of cholic pinch' d and vex'd, 
By the imprisoning of unruly wind 
Within her womb ; which, for enlargement striving, 



274 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down 
High tow'rs and moss-grown steeples. At your birth, 
Our grandam earth, with this distemperature, 
In passion shook. 

Glen. Cousin, of many men 
I do not bear these crossings : give me leave 
To tell you once again, that at my birth 
The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes ; 
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds 
Were strangely clam'rous in the frighted fields : 
These signs have marked me extraordinary, 
And all the courses of my life do show, 
I am not in the roll of common men. 
Where is he living, dipt in with the sea 
That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland, 
Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me ? 
And bring him out, that is but woman's son, 
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art, 
Or hold me pace in deep experiments. 

Hot. I think there is no man speaks better Welch. 

Glen. I can speak English, lord, as well as you. 
For I was train' d up in the English court ; 
Where, being young, I framed to the harp 
Many an English ditty, lovely well, 
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament ; 
A virtue that was never seen in you. 

Hot. Marry, and I 'm glad of it with all my heart, 
I had rather be a kitten and cry mew ! 
Than one of these same metre-ballad mongers ; 
I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd, 
Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree, 
And that would nothing set my teeth on edge, 
Nothing so much as mincing poetry ; 
'T is like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag. 

Glen. And I can call spirits from the vasty deep. 

Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man : 
But will they come when you do call for them ? 

Glen. Why, I can teach thee to command the devil. 

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz to shame the devil, 
By telling truth ; Tell truth and shame the devil. — 
If thou hast pow'r to raise him, bring him hither, 
And I '11 be sworn, I 've pow'r to shame him hence. 
Oh, while you live, Tell truth and shame the deviL 



orator's own book. 2?5 

the death of charles james fox. 

Extract from Mr. Sheridan's Speech, to the Electors of Westminster, Sept. 18, 1806« 

I come now, gentlemen, with a very embarrassed feeling, 
to that declaration which I yet think you must have ex- 
pected from me, but which I make with reluctance, because, 
from the marked approbation I experienced from you, I fear 
with reluctance you will receive it. I feel myself under 

THE NECESSITY OF RETIRING FROM THIS CONTEST. I beseech 

you to hear me with patience^ and in the temper with which 
I address you. There is in true friendship this advantage ; 
the inferior mind looks to the presiding intellect as its guide 
and landmark while living, and to the engraven memory of 
its principles, as a rule of conduct, after its death. Yet fur- 
ther, still unmixed with idle superstition, there may be 
gained a salutary lesson from contemplating what would be 
grateful to the mind of the departed, were he conscious of 
what is passing here. I solemnly believe, that could such a 
consideration have entered into Mr. Fox's last moments, 
there is nothing his wasted spirits would so have deprecated, 
as a contest of the nature which I now disclaim and relin- 
quish. It was never ascertained to me until Monday last, 
after this meeting had been fixed, that Lord Percy would 
certainly be a candidate. My friends hesitated, in the hope 
that it might be left to arbitration, which candidate should 
withdraw. That hoped has failed. I claim the privilege of 
nearest and dearest friendship, to set the example of a sacri- 
fice — comparatively how small to what it demands ! Nothing 
could have induced me to have proceeded to a disputed poll 
on this occasion. — The hour is not far distant when an awful 
knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your 
reverend patriot, are passing through the streets to that 
sepulchral home, where your kings — your heroes — your 
sages — and your poets lie, and where they are to be 
honoured by the association of his noble remains — that 
hour, when, however the splendid gaudiness of public 
pageantry may be avoided, you — you — all of you will be 
self-marshaled in reverential sorrow, mute, and reflecting on 
your mighty loss. At that moment, shall the disgusting 
contest of an election-wrangle break the solemnity of the 
scene ? — Is it fitting that any man should overlook the 



276 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 

crisis, and risk the rude and monstrous contest? Is it fitting 
that I should be that man ? — Allow me to hope, from the 
manner in which you have received the little I have said on 
this subject, that I need add no more. 



SPEECH OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM BEFORE HIS EXE- 
CUTION. Shakspeare. 

King Henry VIII. Act 2, Scene 1. 

All good people, 
You that thus far have come to pity me, 
Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. 
I have this day received a traitor's judgment, 
And by that name must die : Yet, heaven bear witness, 
And, if I have a conscience, let it sink me, 
Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful ! 
The law I bear no malice for my death, 
It has done, upon the premises, but justice : 
But those that sought it, I could wish more Christians : 
Be what they will, I heartily forgive them : 
Yet let them look* they glory not in mischief, 
Nor build their evils on the graves of great men; 
For then my guiltless blood must cry against them. 
For further life in this world I ne'er hope, 
Nor will 1 sue, although the king have mercies 
More than I dare make faults. You few that loved me, 
And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, 
His noble friends, and fellows, whom to leave 
Is only bitter to him, only dying, 
Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; 
And as the long divorce f of steel falls on me, 
Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, 
And lift my soul to heaven. 
* * * * All good people, 
Pray for me ! I must now forsake ye ; the last hour 
Of my long weary life is come upon me. 
Farewell ' * * * * 
And when you would say something that is sad, 
Speak how I fell. 

* Let them see to it that they glory, &c. 

f Divorce, that which causes the divorcement or separation of the 
head from the body : divorce of steel, the axe. 



ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 277 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. Byrox. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; 

I love not man the less, but nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which 1 steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain, 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 

"When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 

Thy waters wasted them, while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 

Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou, 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play — 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 

Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 

Borne, like the bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton' d with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 

Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was, as it were, a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows, far and near, 

And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
24 



278 



OUR OBLIGATIONS TO THE OFFICERS OF THE REVOLUTION, AND 
OUR SYMPATHY DUE TO THEIR DESCENDANTS. 

Extract from the Speech of Edward Livingston, on a Bill for the relief of the Surviving 
Officers of the Army of the Revolution, delivered in the House of Representatives 
of the United States, January 15, 1827. 

Mr. Chairman, — I differ from the honourable gentle- 
man from Massachusetts, who says, no sympathy ought to 
be felt for the children of the deceased officers, who may be 
in want. They have not served us, it is true; but their 
fathers, who did, are beyond the reach of our gratitude, and 
the transfer of the feeling is natural and just. Public bene- 
fits bestowed on the children of the deceased father, encou- 
rage him who is alive, in the discharge of his duty, by the 
purest of all motives — paternal affection ; and that legislation 
must be unwise, indeed, that fails to enlist, in support of the 
state, all the best impulses of humanity. Let that republic 
get on as it can, where the veteran, blind, maimed and poor, 
like Belisarius, is forced to apply to public charity for sup- 
port ! Let that republic get on as it can, where contracts 
are broken, and public beneficence refused ; where nothing 
is given but what is in the bond — and that is frequently 
refused ! Let that republic get on as it can ! It will never 
produce any thing great ; its career will be short and inglo- 
rious ; its fall certain and unpitied ; its history remembered 
as a warning, not an example ; and the names of its legis- 
lators and statesmen, buried in the oblivion to which their 
false economy tends to consign the memory of those, who 
have established its freedom, or defended it from aggression. 
May ours show, by its decision on this bill, that it has a 
higher destiny, and that it is guarded as well by liberality 
and honour, as by justice. 



jENEAS TO QUEEN DIDO, GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE SACK OF 
TROY. — Virgil. 

All were attentive to the godlike man, 
When from his lofty couch, he thus began : — 
Great Queen ! What you command me to relate, 
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate ; 
An empire from its old foundations rent, 
And ev'ry wo the Trojans underwent; 



orator's own book. 279 

A pop'lous city made a desert place ; 
All that I saw and part of which I was, 
Not e'en the hardest of our foes could hear, 
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 

'T was now the dead of night, when sleep repairs 
Oar bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, 
When Hector's ghost before my sight appears ; 
Shrouded in blood he stood, and bath'd in tears ; 
Such as when, by the fierce Pelides slain, 
Thessalian coursers dragg'd him o'er the plain. 
Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust 
Through the pierc'd limbs ; his body black with dust ; 
Unlike that Hector, who return' d from toils 
Of war triumphant, in iEacian spoils ; 
Or him, who made the fainting Greeks retire, 
Hurling amidst their fleets the Phrygian fire. 
His hair and beard were clotted stiff with gore : 
The ghastly wounds he for his country bore, 
Now stream'd afresh. 
I wept to see the visionary man ; 
And whilst my trance continu'd, thus began : — 

" O light of Trojans, and support of Troy, 
Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy ! 
O long expected by thy friends ! From whence 
Art thou so late return' d to our defence ? 
Alas ! what wounds are these ? What new disgrace 
Deforms the manly honours of thy face ?" 

The spectre, groaning from his inmost breast, 
This warning, in these mournful words express' d : 

" Haste, goddess born! Escape, by timely flight, 
The flames and horrors of this fatal night ; 
Thy foes already have possess'd our wall ; 
Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall. 
Enough is paid to Priam's royal name, 
Enough to country, and to deathless fame. 
If by a mortal arm my father's throne 
Could have been sav'd — this arm the feat had done. 
Troy now commends to thee her future state, 
And gives her gods companions of thy fate ; 
Under their umbrage hope for happier walls, 
And follow where thy various fortune calls." 
He said, and brought from forth the sacred choir, 
The gods and relics of th' immortal fire. 



280 orator's own book. 

Now peals of shouts came thund'ring from afar 
Cries, threats, and loud lament, and mingled war. 
The noise approaches, though our palace stood 
Aloof from streets, embosom'd close with wood ; 
Louder and louder still I hear th' alarms 
Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms. 
Fear broke my slumbers. 
I mount the terrace ; thence the town survey, 
And listen what the swelling sounds convey. 
Then Hector's faith was manifestly clear' d, 
And Grecian fraud in open light appear'd. 
The palace of Deiphobus ascends 
In smoky flames, and catches on his friends. 
Ucalegon burns next ; the seas are bright 
With splendours not their own, and shine with sparkling 
light. 

New clamours and new clangours now arise, 
The trumpet's voice, with agonizing cries. 
With frenzy seiz'd, I run to meet th' alarms, 
Resolv'd on death, resolv'd to die in arms. 
But first to gather friends, with whom t' oppose, 
If fortune favour' d, and repel the foes, 
By courage rous'd, by love of country fir'd, 
With sense of honour and revenge inspir'd. 
Pantheus, Apollo's priest, a sacred name, 
Had 'scap'd the Grecian swords, and pass'd the flame. 
With relics loaded, to my doors he fled, 
And by the hand his tender grandson led. 

" What hope, O Pantheus ? whither can we run ? 
Where make a stand ? Or, what can yet be done ?" 
Scarce had I spoke, when Pantheus, with a groan, 
" Troy is no more! Her glories now are gone. 
The fatal day, th' appointed hour is come, 
When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom 
Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands : 
Our city's wrapt in flames ; the foe commands. 
To several posts their parties they divide ; 
Some block the narrow streets ; some scour the wide. 
The bold they kill ; th' unwary they surprise ; 
Who fights meets death; and death finds him who flies." 



orator's own book, 281 



THE SETTLEMENT OF THE WESTERN STATES. 

Extract from the Speech of Mr. Webster, in the Senate of the United States, January 
20th, 1830. 

Mr. President, — I now proceed, sir, to some of the opin- 
ions expressed by the gentleman from South Carolina. Two 
or three topics were touched by him, in regard to which he 
expressed sentiments in which I do not at all concur. 

In the first place, sir, the honourable gentleman spoke of 
the whole course and policy of the government towards those 
who have purchased and settled the public lands ; and seem- 
ed to think this policy wrong. He held it to have been, from 
the first, hard and rigorous ; he was of opinion, that the 
United States had acted towards those who had subdued the 
western wilderness, in the spirit of a step-mother; that the 
public domain had been improperly regarded as a source of 
revenue ; and that we had rigidly compelled payment for 
that which ought to have been given away. He said we 
ought to have followed the analogy of other governments, 
which had acted on a much more liberal system than ours, 
in planting colonies. He dwelt, particularly, upon the set- 
tlement of America by colonists from Europe ; and reminded 
us, that their governments had not exacted from those colo- 
nists payment for the soil ; with them, he said, it had been 
thought, that the conquest of the wilderness was, itself, an 
equivalent for the soil, and he lamented that we had not fol- 
lowed that example, and pursued the same liberal course 
towards our own emigrants to the West. 

Now, I do not admit, sir, that the analogy to which the 
gentleman refers us is just, or that the cases are at all simi- 
lar. There is no resemblance between the cases upon 
which a statesman can found an argument. The original 
North American colonists either fled from Europe, like our 
New England ancestors, to avoid persecution, or came 
hither at their own charges, and often at the ruin of their 
fortunes, as private adventurers. Generally speaking they 
derived neither succour nor protection from their govern- 
ments at home. Wide, indeed, is the difference between 
those cases and ours. From the very origin of the govern- 
ment, these western lands, and the just protection of those 
who had settled or should settle on them, have been the 
34* 



282 

leading objects in our policy, and have led to expenditures, 
both of blood and treasure, not inconsiderable ; not indeed 
exceeding the importance of the object, and not yielded 
grudgingly, or reluctantly certainly ; but yet not incon- 
siderable, though necessary sacrifices, made for high proper 
ends. The Indian title has been extinguished at the expense 
of many millions. Is that nothing ? There is still a much 
more material consideration. These colonists, if we are to 
call them so, in passing the Alleghany, did not pass beyond 
the care and protection of their own government. Wherever 
they went, the public arm was still stretched over them. A 
parental government at home was still ever mindful of their 
condition and their wants ; and nothing was spared which a 
just sense of their necessities required. Is it forgotten, that 
it was one of the most arduous duties of the government in 
its earliest years, to defend the frontiers against the north- 
western Indians ? Are the sufferings and misfortunes under 
Harmar and St. Clair not worthy to be remembered ? Do 
the occurrences connected with these military efforts show 
an unfeeling neglect of western interests ? And here, sir, 
what becomes of the gentleman's analogy ? What English 
armies accompanied our ancestors to clear the forests of a 
barbarous foe ? What treasures of the Exchequer were ex- 
pended in buying up the original title to the soil ? What 
governmental arm held its iEgis over our fathers 7 heads as 
they pioneered their way in the wilderness ? Sir, it was not 
till General Wayne's victory, in 1794, that it could be said 
Ave had conquered the savages. It was not till that period, 
that the government could have considered itself as having 
established an entire ability to protect those who should un- 
dertake the conquest of the wilderness. And here, sir, at 
the epoch of 1794, let us pause, and survey the scene. It 
is now thirty-five years since that scene actually existed. 
Let us, sir, look back, and behold it. Over all that is now 
Ohio, there then stretched one vast wilderness, unbroken, 
except by two small spots of civilized culture, the one at 
Marietta, and the other at Cincinnati. At these little open- 
ings, hardly each a pin's point upon the map, the arm of 
the frontiersman had leveled the forest, and let in the sun. 
These little patches of earth, and themselves almost shadow- 
ed by the over-hanging boughs of that wilderness, which 
had stood and perpetuated itself, from century to century, 



283 

ever since the creation, were all, that had then been render- 
ed verdant by the hand of man. In an extent of hundreds, 
and thousands of square miles, no other surface of smiling 
green attested the presence of civilization. The hunter's 
path crossed mighty rivers, flowing in solitary grandeur, 
whose sources lay in remote and unknown regions of the 
wilderness. It struck, upon the north, on a vast inland sea, 
over which the wintry tempests raged as on the ocean ; all 
around was bare creation. It was fresh, untouched, unbound- 
ed, magnificent wilderness. And, sir, what is it now ? Is 
it imagination only, or can it possibly be fact, that presents 
such a change, as surprises and astonishes us, when we turn 
our eyes to what Ohio now is ? Is it reality, or a dream, 
that in so short a period even as thirty-five years, there has 
sprung up, on the same surface, an independent State, with 
a million of people ? A million of inhabitants ! an amount 
of population greater than that of all the cantons of Switzer- 
land ; equal to one third of all the people of the United 
States, when they undertook to accomplish their independence. 
This new member of the Republic has already left far be- 
hind her a majority of the old States. She is now by the 
side of Virginia and Pennsylvania ; and, in point of numbers, 
will, shortly admit no equal but New-York herself. If, sir, 
we may judge of measures by their results, what lessons do 
these facts read us, upon the policy of the government ? For 
my own part, while I am struck with wonder at the success, 
I also look with admiration at the wisdom and foresight 
which originally arranged and prescribed the system for the 
settlement of the public domain. Its operation has been, 
without a moment's interruption, to push the settlement of 
the western country to the full extent of our utmost means. 



CONCLUSION OF MR. HAYNE S SPEECH TN REPLY TO 
MR. WEBSTER. 

Mr. President, — When I took occasion, two days ago, to 
throw out some ideas with respect to the policy of the 
government, in relation to the public lands, nothing certainly 
could have been further from my thoughts, than that I should 



284 orator's own book. 

be compelled again to throw myself upon the indulgence oi 
the senate. Little did I expect to be called upon to meet 
such an argument as was yesterday urged by the gentleman 
from Massachusetts.* Sir, I questioned no man's opinions : 
I impeached no man's motives : I charged no party, or 
state, or section of country, with hostility to any other ; but 
ventured, 1 thought, in a becoming spirit, to put forth my 
own sentiments in relation to a great national question of 
public policy. Such was my course. The gentleman from 
Missouri, it is true, had charged upon the Eastern States an 
early and continued hostility towards the West, and referred 
to a number of historical facts and documents in support of 
that charge. Now, sir, how have these different arguments" 
been met ? The honourable gentleman from Massachusetts, 
after deliberating a whole night upon his course, comes into 
this chamber to vindicate New-England ; and instead of 
making up his issue with the gentleman from Missouri, on 
the charges which he had preferred, chooses to consider me 
as the author of those charges, and, losing sight entirely of 
that gentleman, selects me as his adversary, and pours out 
all the vials of his mighty wrath upon my devoted head. 
Nor is he willing to stop here. He goes on to assail the 
institutions and policy of the South, and calls in question 
the principles and conduct of the state which I have the 
honour to represent. When I find a gentleman of mature 
age and experience — of acknowledged talents, and profound 
sagacity, pursuing a course like this, declining the contest 
offered from the West, and making war upon the unoffend- 
ing South, I must believe, I am bound to believe, he had 
some object in view that he has not ventured to disclose. 
Mr. President, why is this ? Has the gentleman discovered 
in former controversies with the gentleman from Missouri, 
that he is over-matched by that senator? And does he hope 
for an easy victory over a more feeble adversary ? Has the 
gentleman's distempered fancy been disturbed by gloomy 
forebodings of " new alliances to be formed," at which he 
hinted ? Has the ghost of the murdered Coalition come 
back, like the ghost of Banquo, to " sear the eye-balls of the 
gentleman," and will he not " down at his bidding?" Are 
dark visions of broken hopes, and honours lost forever, stiU 

* Mr. Webster. 



orator's own book. 285 

floating before his heated imagination? Sir, if it be his 
object to thrust me between the gentleman of Missouri and 
himself, in order to rescue the East from the contest it has 
provoked with the West, he shall not be gratified. Sir, I 
will not be dragged into the defence of my friend from Mis- 
souri. The gentleman from Missouri is able to fight his 
own battles. The South shall not be forced into a conflict 
not its own. The gallant West needs no aid from the South 
to repel any attack which may be made on them from any 
quarter. Let the gentleman from Massachusetts controvert 
the facts and arguments of the gentleman of Missouri if he 
can — and if he win the victory, let him wear its honours : I 
shall not deprive him of his laurels. 



CHARACTERS OF LORD CHATHAM AND MR. C. TOWNSHEND. 

Burke. 

' I have done with the third period of your policy; the 
return to your ancient system, and your ancient tranquillity 
and concord. Sir, this period was not as long as it was 
happy. Another scene was opened, and other actors ap- 
peared on the stage. The state, in the condition I have 
described it, was delivered into the hands of Lord Chatham 
-—a great and celebrated name ; a name that keeps the name 
of this country respectable in every other on the globe. It 
may be be truly called, 

Clarum et venerabile nomen 
Gentibus et multura nostra quod proderat urbi. 

Sir, the venerable age of this great man, his merited rank, 
his superior eloquence, his splendid qualities, his eminent 
services, the vast space he fills in the eye of mankind ; and 
more than all the rest, his fall from power, which, like 
death, canonizes and sanctifies a great character, will not 
suffer me to censure any part of his conduct. I am afraid 
to flatter him; I am sure I am not disposed to blame him. 
Let those who have betrayed him by their adulation, insult 
him with their malevolence. But what I do not presume 
to censure, I may have leave to lament. For a wise man, 
he seemed to me at that time to be governed too much by 
general maxims. I speak with the freedom of history, and 



286 

I hope without offence. One or two of these maxims, flow- 
ing from an opinion not the most indulgent to our unhappy 
species, and surely a little too general, led him into measures 
that were greatly mischievous to himself : and for that 
reason, among others, perhaps fatal to his country ; mea- 
sures, the effects of which, I am afraid, are for ever incura- 
ble. He made an administration, so checkered and speck- 
led; he put together a piece of joinery, so crossly indented 
and whimsically dovetailed ; a cabinet so variously inlaid ; 
such a piece of diversified mosaic, such a tesselated pave- 
ment without cement, here a bit of black stone and there a 
bit of white ; patriots and courtiers, king's friends and 
republicans ; whigs and tories ; treacherous friends and open 
enemies ; that it was indeed a very curious show ; but utterly 
unsafe to touch, and unsure to stand on. 

In consequence of this arrangement, the confusion was 
such that his own principles could not possibly have any 
effect or influence in the conduct of affairs. If ever he fell 
into a fit of the gout, or if any other cause withdrew him 
from public cares, principles directly contrary were sure to 
predominate. When he had executed his plan, he had not 
an inch of ground to stand on ; when he had accomplished 
his scheme of administration, he was no longer a minister. 
When his face was hid for a moment, his whole system was 
on a wide sea, without chart or compass. The gentlemen, 
his particular friends, with a confidence in him which was 
justified even in its extravagance by his superior abilities, had 
never in any instance presumed upon any opinion of their 
own. Deprived of his guiding influence, they were whirled 
about, the sport of every gust, and easily driven into any 
port; and as those who joined with them in manning the 
vessel of the state were the most directly opposite to his 
opinions, measures and character, and far the most artful 
and most powerful of the set, they easily prevailed so as to 
seize upon the vacant derelict minds of his friends, and in- 
stantly they turned the vessel wholly out of the course of 
his policy. As it were to insult as well as to betray him, 
even long before the close of the first session of his adminis- 
tration, when every thing was publicly transacted and with 
great parade, in his name, they made an act declaring it 
highly just and expedient to raise a revenue in America. 
For even then, sir, even before this splendid orb was entirely 



ORATOR* S OWN BOOK. 28? 

set, and while the western horizon was in a blaze with his 
descending glory, on the opposite quarter of the heavens 
arose another luminary, and for his hour, became lord of the 
ascendant. 

This light too is passed and set for ever. You under- 
stand, to be sure, that I speak of Charles Townshend, 
officially the reproducer of this fatal scheme ; whom I can- 
not even now remember without some degree of sensibility. 
In truth, he was the delight and ornament of this house, and 
the charm of every private society which he honoured with 
his presence. Perhaps there never arose in this country, 
nor in any country, a man of a more pointed and finished 
wit ; and (where his passions were not concerned) of a more 
refined, exquisite and penetrating judgment. If he had not 
so great a stock as some have had who flourished formerly, 
of knowledge long treasured up, he knew better by far than 
any man I ever was acquainted with, how to bring together, 
within a short time, all that was necessary to establish, to 
illustrate, and to decorate that side of the question he sup- 
ported. He stated his matter skilfully and powerfully. He 
particularly excelled in a most luminous explanation and 
display of his subject. His style of argument was neither 
trite and vulgar, nor subtle and abstruse. He hit the house 
just between wind and water. And not being troubled with 
too anxious a zeal for any matter in question, he was never 
more tedious or more earnest than the preconceived opinions 
and present temper of his hearers required : to whom he 
was always in perfect unison. He conformed exactly to 
the temper of the house ; and he seemed to guide, because 
he was always sure to follow it. 

I beg pardon, sir, if, when I speak of this and of other 
great men, I appear to digress in saying something of their 
characters. In this eventful history of the revolutions of 
America, the characters of such men are of much importance. 
Great men are the guide-posts and landmarks in the state. 
The credit of such men at court, or in the nation, is the sole 
cause of all the public measures. It would be an invidious 
thing (most foreign, I trust to what you think my disposi- 
tion) to remark the errors into which the authority of great 
names has brought the nation without doing justice at the 
same time to the great qualities whence that authority arose. 
The subject is instructive to those who wish to form them- 



288 orator's own book. 

selves on whatever of excellence has gone before them. 
There are many young members in the house, who never 
saw that prodigy, Charles Townshend ; nor of course know 
what ferment he was able to excite in every thing by the 
violent ebulition of his mixed virtues and failings. For fail- 
ings he had undoubtedly — many of us remember them — we 
are this day considering the effects of them. But he had no 
failings which were not owing to a noble cause ; to an ar- 
dent, generous, perhaps an immoderate passion for fame ; 
a passion whieh is the instinct of all great souls. He wor- 
shipped that goddess wheresoever she appeared ; but he paid 
his particular devotions to her in her favourite habitation, in 
her chosen temple, the house of commons. Besides the 
characters of the individuals who compose our body, it is 
impossible, Mr. Speaker, not to observe, that this house has 
a collective character of its own. That character, too, how- 
ever imperfect, is not unamiable. Like all great public col- 
lections of men, you possess a marked love of virtue, and an 
abhorrence of vice. But among vices, there is none which 
the house abhors in the same degree with obstinacy. Ob- 
stinacy, sir, is certainly a great vice ; and in the changeful 
state of political affairs, it is frequently the cause of great 
mischief. It happens, however, very unfortunately, that 
almost the whole line of the great and masculine virtues, 
constancy, gravity, magnanimity, fortitude, fidelity and firm- 
ness, are closely allied to this disagreeable quality, of which 
you have so just an abhorrence ; and in their excess, all 
these virtues very easily fall into it. He who paid such a 
particular attention to all your feelings, certainly took care 
not to shock them by that vice which is most disgustful to 
you. 

That fear of displeasing those who ought most to be pleas- 
ed, betrayed him sometimes into the other extreme. He 
had voted, and, in the year 1765, had been an advocate for 
the stamp-act. Things and the dispositions of men's minds 
were changed. In short the stamp-act began to be no fa- 
vourite with this house. Accordingly, he voted for the re- 
peal. The very next session, as the fashion of this world 
passeth away, the repeal began to be in as bad repute as the 
stamp-act had been the session before. To conform to the 
temper which began to prevail, and to prevail mostly amongst 
those most in power, he declared very early in the winter 



orator's own book. 289 

that a revenue must be had out of America. Here this ex- 
traordinary man, then chancellor of the exchequer, found 
himself in great straits. To please universally was the ob- 
ject of his life ; but to tax and to please, no more than to 
love and to be wise, is not given to men. However, he 
attempted it. To render the tax palatable to the partisans of 
American revenue, he had made a preamble, stating the ne- 
cessity of such a revenue. To close with the American 
distinction, this revenue was external, or port-duty; but 
again to soften it to the other party, it was a duty of supply, 
&c. This fine spun scheme had the usual fate of all exqui- 
site policy. But the original plan, and the mode of execut- 
ing that plan, both arose singly and solely from a love of 
our applause. He was truly the child of the house. He 
never thought, did, or said any thing but with a view to you. 
He every day adapted himself to your disposition, and ad- 
justed himself before it, as at a looking-glass. 

He had observed that several persons, infinitely his inferiors 
in all respects, had formerly rendered themselves considerable 
in this house by one method alone. They were a race of men 
(I hope in God the species is extinct) who, when they rose in 
their place, no man living could divine from any known adhe- 
rence to parties, to opinions, or to principles ; from any order or 
system in their politics ; or from any sequel or connection in 
their ideas, what part they were going to take in any debate. 
It is astonishing, how much this uncertainty, especially at 
critical times, called the attention of all parties on such men. 
All eyes were fixed on them, all ears open to hear them; 
each party gaped and looked alternately for their vote, al- 
most to the end of their speeches. While the house hung 
in this uncertainty, now the hear-hims rose from this side — 
now they rebellowed from the other ; and that party to 
whom they fell at last from their tremulous and dancing 
balance, always received them in a tempest of applause. 
The fortune of such men was a temptation too great to be 
resisted by one, to whom a single whiff of incense withheld 
gave much greater pain, than he received delights in the 
clouds of it, which daily rose about him from the prodigal 
superstition of innumerable admirers. He was a candidate 
for contradictory honours ; and his great aim was to make 
those agree in the admiration of him, who never agreed in 
any thing else. 
25 



290 



HECTOR IN BATTLE. — Shakspeare. 

I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft, 
Labouring for destiny, make cruel way 
Through ranks of Greekish youths : and I have seen thee, 
As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, 
Despising many forfeits and subduments, 
When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' the air, 
Nor letting it decline on the declin'd ; 
That I have said to some my standers-by, 
" Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life !" 
And I have seen thee pause, and take thy breath, 
When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in, 
Like an Olympian wrestling. 



PROLOGUE TO HENRY IV. Shakspeare. 

Enter Rumour, painted full of Tongues. 

Open your ears : for which of you will stop 
The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour speaks ? 
I, from the orient to the drooping west, 
Making the wind my posthorse, still unfold 
The acts commenced on this ball of earth : 
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride ; 
The which in every language I pronounce, 
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. 
I speak of peace, while covert enmity, 
Under the smile of safety, wounds the world : 
And who but Rumour, who but only I, 
Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence, 
Whilst the big year, swol'n with some other grief, 
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant War, 
And no such matter ? Rumour is a pipe 
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures; 
And of so easy and so plain a stop, 
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, 
The still-discordant wavering multitude, 
Can play upon it. But what need I thus 
My well-known body to anatomize 
Among my household ? Why is Rumour here ? 



orator's own book. 291 

I run before king Harry's victory ; 
Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury, 
Hath beaten down young Hotspur, and his troops, 
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion, 
Even with the rebel's blood. But what mean I 
To speak so true at first ? My office is 
To noise abroad, — that Harry Monmouth fell 
Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword ; 
And that the king before the Douglas' rage 
Stoop' d his anointed head as low as death. 
This have I rumour' d through the peasant towns 
Between that royal field of Shrewsbury 
And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, 
Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland, 
Lies crafty sick : the post comes tiring on, 
And not a man of them brings other news 
Than they have learn'd of me ; from Rumour's tongues 
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true 
wrongs. 



IMPORTANCE OF LITERATURE.— Lord Lyttleton. 
Cadmus and Hercules. 

Her. Do you pretend to sit as high on Olympus as Her- 
cules ? Did you kill the Nemean lion, the Erymanthian 
boar, the Lemean serpent, and Stymphalian birds ? Did you 
destroy tyrants and robbers ? You value yourself greatly on 
subduing one serpent : I did as much as that while I lay in 
my cradle. 

Cad. It is not on account of the serpent, that I boast my- 
self a greater benefactor to Greece than you. Actions should 
he valued by their utility, rather than their splendour. I 
taught Greece the art of writing, to which laws owe their 
precision and permanency. You subdued monsters ; I civil- 
ized men. It is from untamed passions, not from wild 
beasts, that the greatest evils arise to human society. By 
wisdom, by art, by the united strength of civil community, 
men have been enabled to subdue the whole race of lions, 
bears and serpents ; and, what is more, to bind by laws and 
wholesome regulations, the ferocious violence and dangerous 
treachery of the human disposition. Had lions been de- 



292 orator's own book. 

stroyed only in single combat, men had had but a bad time 
of it ; and what but laws could awe the men who killed the 
lions ? The genuine glory, the proper distinction of the 
rational species, arise from the perfection of the mental 
powers. Courage is apt to be fierce, and strength is often 
exerted in acts of oppression ; but wisdom is the associate 
of justice. It assists her to form equal laws, to pursue 
right measures, to correct power, protect weakness, and to 
unite individuals in a common interest and general welfare. 
Heroes may kill tyrants ; but it is wisdom and laws that 
prevent tyranny and oppression. The operations of policy 
far surpass the labours of Hercules, preventing many evils 
which valour and might cannot even redress. You heroes 
regard nothing but glory ; and scarcely consider whether the 
conquests which raise your fame, are really beneficial to 
your country. Unhappy are the people who are governed 
by valour, not directed by prudence, and not mitigated by 
the gentle arts ! 

Her. I do not expect to find an admirer of my strenu- 
ous life, in the man who taught his countrymen to sit still 
and read ; and to lose the hours of youth and action in idle 
speculation and the sport of words. 

Cad. An ambition to have a place in the registers of fame, 
is the Eurystheus which imposes heroic labours on man- 
kind. The Muses incite to action, as well as entertain the 
hours of repose ; and I think you should honour them for 
presenting to heroes such a noble recreation, as may prevent 
their taking up the distiff, when they lay down the club. 

Her. Wits as well as heroes can take up the distaff. 
What think you of their thin-spun systems of philosophy, 
or lascivious poems, or Milesian fables ? Nay, what is still 
worse, are there not panegyrics on tyrants, and books that 
blaspheme the gods, and perplex the natural sense of right 
and wrong? I believe if Eurystheus were to set me to work 
again, he would find me a worse task than any he imposed ; 
he would make me read over a great library ; and I would 
serve it as I did the Hydra. I would burn as I went on, 
that one chimera might not rise from another, to plague 
mankind. I should have valued myself more on clearing 
the library than on cleansing the Augean stables. 

Cad. It is in those libraries only that the memory of your 
labours exists. The heroes of Marathon, the patriots of 



orator's own book. 293 

Thermopylae owe their fame to me. All the wise institu- 
tions of lawgivers, and all the doctrines of sages, had perished 
in the ear, like a dream related, if letters had not preserved 
them. O Hercules ! it is not for the man who preferred 
virtue to pleasure, to be an enemy to the muses. Let 
Sardanapalus and the silken sons of luxury, who have 
wasted life in inglorious ease, despise the records of action, 
which bear no honourable testimony to their lives : But true 
merit, heroic virtue, should respect the sacred source of 
lasting honour. 

Her. Indeed, if writers employed themselves only in 
recording the acts of great men, much might be said in their 
favour. But why do they trouble people with their medita- 
tions ? Can it be of any consequence to the world what an 
idle man has been thinking ? 

Cad. Yes, it may. The most important and extensive 
advantages mankind enjoy, are greatly owing to men who 
have never quitted their closets. To them mankind are 
obliged for the facility and security of navigation. The in- 
vention of the compass has opened to them new worlds. 
The knowledge of the mechanical powers has enabled them 
to construct such wonderful machines, as perform what the 
united labour of millions, by the severest drudgery, could 
not accomplish. Agriculture too, the most useful of arts, 
has received its share of improvement from the same source. 
Poetry likewise is of excellent use, to enable the memory to 
retain with more ease, and to imprint with more energy 
upon the heart, precepts and examples of virtue. From the 
little root of a few letters, science has spread its branches 
over all nature, and raised its head to the heavens. Some 
philosophers have entered so far into the counsels of Divine 
Wisdom, as to explain much of the great operations of 
nature. The dimensions and distances of the planets, the 
causes of their revolutions, the path of comets, and the ebb- 
ing and flowing of the tides, are understood and explained. 
Can any thing raise the glory of the human species more 
than to see a little creature, inhabiting a small spot, amidst 
innumerable worlds, taking a survey of the universe, com- 
prehending its arrangement, and entering into the scheme of 
that wonderful connection and correspondence of things so 
remote, and which it seems ? great exertion of Omnipotence 
to have established ? What a volume of wisdom, what a 
25* 



294 

noble theology do these discoveries open to us! While 
some superior geniuses have soared to these sublime sub- 
jects, other sagacious and diligent minds have been inquiring 
into the most minute works of the Infinite Artificer : the 
same care, the same providence is exerted through the 
whole, and we should learn from it, that, to true wisdom, 
utility and fitness appear perfection, and whatever is bene- 
ficial is noble. 

Her. I approve of science as far as it is assistant to action. 
I like the improvement of navigation, and the discovery of 
the greater part of the globe, because it opens a wider field 
for the master spirits of the world to bustle in. 

Cad. There spoke the soul of Hercules. But if learned 
men are to be esteemed for the assistance they give to active 
minds in their schemes, they are not less to be valued for 
their endeavours to give them a right direction, and mode- 
rate their too great ardour. The study of history will teach 
the legislator by what means states have become powerful ; 
and in the private citizen, they will inculcate the love of 
liberty and order. The writings of sages point out a pri- 
vate path of virtue ; and show that the best empire is self- 
government, and that subduing our passions is the noblest 
of conquests. 

Her. The true spirit of heroism acts by a generous im- 
pulse, and wants neither the experience of history, nor the 
doctrines of philosophers, to direct it. But do not arts and 
sciences render men effeminate, luxurious and inactive ? 
and can you deny that wit and learning are often made sub- 
servient to very bad purposes ? 

Cad. I will own that there are some natures so happily 
formed, they scarcely want the assistance of a master, and 
rules of art, to give them force or grace in every thing they 
do. But these favoured geniuses are few. As learning 
flourishes only where ease, plenty, and mild government 
subsist ; in so rich a soil, and under so soft a climate, the 
weeds of luxury will spring up among the flowers of art : 
but the spontaneous weeds would grow more rank, if they 
were allowed the undisturbed possession of the field. Let- 
ters keep a frugal temperate nation from growing ferocious, 
a rich one from becoming entirely sensual and debauched. 
Every gift of Heaven is sometimes abused ; but good sense 
and fine talents, by a natural law, gravitate towards virtue. 



orator's own book. 295 

Accidents may drive them out of their proper direction ; but 
such accidents are an alarming omen, and of dire portent to 
the times. For if virtue cannot keep to her allegiance those 
men, who in their hearts confess her divine right, and know 
the value of her laws, on whose fidelity and obedience can 
she depend ? May such geniuses never descend to flatter 
vice, encourage folly, or propagate irreligion ; but exert all 
their powers in the service of virtue, and celebrate the noble 
choice of those, who, like Hercules, preferred her to plea- 
sure ! 



ON THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. Johnson. 

Maselas, Princess, Imlac and Astronomer. 

" What reason !" said the prince, "can be given, why 
the Egyptians should thus expensively preserve those car- 
casses which some nations consume with fire, others lay to 
mingle with the earth, and all agree to remove from their 
sight, as soon as decent rites can be performed?" 

" The original of ancient customs," said Imlac, " is com- 
monly unknown ; for the practice often continues when the 
cause has ceased ; and concerning superstitious ceremonies, 
it is in vain to conjecture ; for what reason did not dictate, 
reason cannot explain. I have long believed, that the prac- 
tice of embalming arose only from tenderness to the remains 
of relations or friends, and to this opinion I am the more 
inclined, because it seems impossible that this case should 
have been general : had all the dead been embalmed, their 
repositories must in time have been more spacious than the 
dwellings of the living. I suppose only the rich or honour- 
able were secured from corruption, and the rest left to the 
course of nature. 

" But it is commonly supposed, that the Egyptians be- 
lieved the soul to live as long as the body continued undis- 
solved, and therefore tried this method of eluding death." 

" Could the wise Egyptians," said Nekayah, think so 
grossly of the soul ? If the soul could once survive its 
separation, what could it afterwards receive or suffer from the 
body?" 

" The Egyptians would doubtless think erroneously," 



296 

said the astronomer, " in the darkness of heathenism, and 
the first dawn of philosophy. The nature of the soul is 
still disputed, amidst all our opportunities of clearer know- 
ledge : some yet say that it may be material, who, neverthe- 
less, believe it to be immortal." 

"Some," answered Imlac, "have indeed said, that the 
soul is material ; but I can scarcely believe, that any man 
has thought it who knew how to think ; for all the conclu- 
sions of reason enforce the immateriality of mind, and all 
the notices of sense and investigation of science concur 
to prove the unconsciousness of matter. 

"It was never supposed that cogitation is inherent in mat- 
ter, or that every particle is a thinking being. Yet, if any 
part of matter be devoid of thought, what part can we suppose 
to think ? Matter can differ from matter only in form, density 
bulk, motion, and direction of motion : to which of these, 
however varied or combined, can consciousness be annexed? 
To be round or square, to be solid or fluid, to be great or 
little, to be moved slowly or swiftly one way or another, 
are modes of material existence, all equally alien from the 
nature of cogitation. If matter be once without thought, it 
can only be made to think by some new modification, but 
all the modifications which it can admit are equally uncon- 
nected with cogitative powers." 

"But the materialists," said the astronomer, "urges, that 
matter may have qualities with which we are unacquainted." 

" He who will determine," returned Imlac, "against that 
which he knows, because there may be something which 
he knows not; he that can set hypothetical possibility 
against acknowledged certainty, is not to be admitted among 
reasonable beings. All that we know of matter is, that mat- 
ter is inert, senseless, and lifeless ; and if this conviction 
cannot be opposed but by referring us to something that we 
know not, we have all the evidence that human intellect can 
admit. If that which is known may be overruled by that 
which is unknown, no being not omniscient, can arrive at cer- 
tainty." 

" Yet let us not," said the astronomer, "too arrogantly 
limit the Creator's power." 

"It is no limitation of omnipotence," replied the poet, 
"to suppose, that one thing is not consistent with another, 
that the same proposition cannot be at once true and false, 



297 

that the same number cannot be even and odd, that cogita- 
tion cannot be conferred on that which is created incapable 
of cogitation." 

" I know not," said Nekayah, " any great use of this 
question. Does that immateriality, which in my opinion 
you have sufficiently proved, necessarily include eternal 
duration ?" 

" Of immateriality," said Imlac, "our ideas are negative, 
and therefore obscure. Immateriality seems to imply a na- 
tural power of perpetual duration as a consequence of ex- 
emption from all causes of decay : whatever perishes is 
destroyed by the solution of its contexture, and separation 
of its parts ; nor can we conceive how that which has no 
parts, and therefore admits no solution, can be naturally cor- 
rupted or impaired." 

" I know not," said Rasselas, "how to conceive any thing 
without extension ; what is extended must have parts, and 
you allow, that whatever has parts may be destroyed." 

"Consider your own conceptions," replied Imlac, " and 
the difficulty will be less. You will find substance without 
extension. An ideal form is no less real than material bulk: 
yet an ideal form has no extension. It is no less certain, 
when you think on a pyramid, that your mind possesses the 
idea of a pyramid, than that the pyramid itself is standing. 
What space does the idea of a pyramid occupy more than 
the idea of a grain of corn ? or how can either suffer lacera- 
tion ? As is the effect such is the cause : as thought such 
is the power that thinks ; a power impassive and indiscerp- 
tible." 

" But the Being," said Nekayah, " whom I fear to name ; 
the being which made the soul, can destroy it." 

" He surely can destroy it," answered Imlac, " since, 
however unperishable, it receives from a superior nature its 
power of duration. That it will not perish by any inherent 
cause of decay, or principle of corruption, may be shown 
by philosophy ; but philosophy can tell no more. That it 
will not be annihilated by him that made it, we must hum- 
bly learn from higher authority." 

The whole assembly stood awhile silent and collected. 
"Let us return," said Rasselas, "from this scene of mor- 
tality. How gloomy would be these mansions of the dead 
to him who did not know that he should never die, that 



298 orator's own book. 

what now acts shall continue its agency, and what now 
thinks shall think on forever ! Those that lie here stretched 
before us, the wise and the powerful of ancient times, warn 
us to remember the shortness of our present state : they 
were, perhaps, snatched away while they were busy, like 
us, in the choice of life." 

" To me,' said the princess, " the choice of life is become 
less important ; I hope hereafter to think only on the choice 
of eternity." 



THE FEARLESSNESS OF CONSCIOUS INNOCENCE. 

Extract from the Speech of Robert Emmet, before sentence of death was pronounced 
upon him. 

My Lord, — You ask me what I have to say, why sen- 
tence of death should not be pronounced on me according to 
law ? I have nothiug to say, that can alter your predeter- 
mination, or that will become me to say with any view to 
the mitigation of that sentence, which you are here to pro- , 
nounce, and I must abide by. But I have that to say which 
interests me more than life, and which you have laboured 
to destroy. I have much to say why my reputation should 
be rescued from the load of false accusation, and calumny 
which has been heaped upon it. 

I am charged with being an emissary of France. An 
emissary of France ! and for what end ? It is alleged, that 
I wished to sell the independence of my country ! And for 
what end? Was this the object of my ambition? And is 
this the mode by which a tribunal of justice reconciles con- 
tradictions ? No ; I am no emissary — my ambition was to 
hold a place among the deliverers of my country — not in 
power, not in profit, but in the glory of the achievement ! 
Sell my country's independence to France ! and for what ? 
A change of masters ? No ; but for ambition ! Oh, my 
country ! was it personal ambition that influenced me — had 
it been the soul of my actions, could I not, by my education 
and fortune, by the rank and consideration of my family, 
have placed myself amongst the proudest of your oppressors ? 
My country was my idol — to it I sacrificed every selfish, 
every endearing sentiment, and for it I now offer up my 
life. No, my lord, I acted as an Irishman, determined on 



orator's own book. 299 

delivering my country from the yoke of a foreign and un- 
relenting tyranny, and from the more galling yoke of a do- 
mestic faction. 

Connection with France was indeed intended— but only 
so far as mutual interest would sanction or require ; were 
they to assume any authority inconsistent with the purest 
independence, it would be the signal of their destruction. 
Were the French to come as invaders, or enemies uninvited 
by the wishes of the people, I should oppose them to the 
utmost of my strength. Yes, my countrymen, I should 
advise you to meet them on the beach, with a sword in one 
hand and a torch in the other. I would meet them with all 
the destructive fury of war, and 1 would animate my coun- 
trymen to immolate them in their boats, before they had con- 
taminated the soil of my country. If they succeeded in 
landing, and if forced to retire before superior discipline, I 
would dispute every inch of ground, raze every house, burn 
every blade of grass — the last spot in which the hope of 
freedom should desert me, there would I hold, and the last 
intrenchment of liberty should be my grave. 

I have been charged with that importance, in the efforts 
to emancipate my country, as to be considered the key-stone 
of the combination of Irishmen, or, as your lordship express- 
ed it, " the life and blood of the conspiracy." You do me 
honour overmuch — you have given to the sabaltern all the 
credit of a superior; there are men engaged in this conspi- 
racy, who are not only superior to me, but even to your 
own conceptions of yourself, my lord — men, before the 
splendour of whose genius and virtues I should bow with re- 
spectful deference, and who would think themselves dishon- 
oured to be called your friends — who would not disgrace 
themselves by shaking your blood-stained hand. — \_Here 
he was inter rapt ed.~\ 

What, my lord, shall you tell me, on the passage to that 
scaffold, which that tyranny, of which you are only the in- 
termediary executioner, has erected for my murder, that I 
am accountable for all the blood that has and will be shed in 
this struggle of the oppressed against the oppressor — shall 
you tell me this, and must I be so very a slave as not to repel 
it. I, who fear not to approach the Omnipotent Judge, to 
answer for the conduct of my whole life — am I to be ap- 
palled and falsified by a mere remnant of mortality here — 



300 orator's own book. 

by you, too, who, if it were possible to collect all the inno- 
cent blood that you have shed, in your unhallowed ministry, 
in one great reservoir, your lordship might swim in it ? 

My lords, you seem impatient for the sacrifice — the blood 
for which you thirst is not congealed by the artificial terrors 
which surround your victim : it circulates warmly and un- 
ruffled through the channels which God created for noble 
purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so 
grievous, that they cry to Heaven. Be yet patient ! I have 
but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and 
silent grave : my lamp of life is nearly extinguished : my 
race is run : the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into 
its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure 
from this world ; it is the charity of its silence. Let no man 
write my epitaph ; for as no man who knows my motives, 
dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance as- 
perse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity, and my 
tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men 
can do justice to my character. When my country takes 
her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till 
then, let my epitaph be written. — I have done ! 



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